


The Seed of The Winter Rose

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canon - book & show combination, Dark, F/M, Fix-It, Gendrya - Freeform, Slow-paced, Smut, Storm’s End, The Seed Of The Winter Rose, Winterfell, intense angst, not for everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-06 05:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20501354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The Seed of The Winter Rose[REVISED AND REWRITTEN]The wars are finally over. The Dragon queen’s reign has come to a tragic end. Jon Snow is dead, and Bran Stark rules over the Seven Kingdoms as king. Sansa Stark rules over Winterfell as the leading Lady of the north.In the south, Gendry Waters, now Gendry Baratheon, rules over Storm’s End as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. He finds himself unfit for rule as he combats his own loneliness, heartbreak and anger.Arya Stark rules beside Sansa in Winterfell, troubled by her sister’s rule, for Sansa intends for Arya to marry sometime in the near future, forcing Arya to have to abandon Winterfell once more. As Arya mourns the death of her ‘brother,’ Jon Snow, she comes to a life-changing realization, one that forces her to leave Winterfell even sooner than she thought.





	1. The Embroidered White Horse

Arya

Arya ascended from the steps of Winterfell’s crypts. Her steps were slow and weak. She felt a strong lump caught inside her throat. She clenched her jaw and her face tensed up. She knew that if she began to cry, she could not have stopped. Arya heard Sansa’s footsteps behind her, they were light and steady. Arya had seen her sister cry earlier when they first beheld their brother’s statue. Well, he wasn’t their brother, not truly. The statue looked like him but older. His brooding face looked harsh in the stone but still the eyes looked soft, looked melancholy. They hadn’t always been melancholy, though. Arya thought about the times they’d finish sentences together, she thought about the time he had given her needle, and about the time he presented her a baby Nymeria.

When she reached the top of the steps, the dull Winterfell sun shined on her face, and she came to the realization that a single tear escaped from her eye and was running down her left cheek. She rubbed her cheek with her leather glove quickly and decided to take off to her chambers before Sansa could summon her for brown bread and stew. Arya looked at her sister. Sansa’s eyes were red and raw from crying, it only made the blue stand out even more. Her stance was regal and proper, her face swollen but stern. The bottom-half of her auburn hair fell down to her shoulders and the other half was fashioned into a simple braided knot. The way Sansa wore her hair reminded Arya of their mother — Catelyn. The thought of her mother made Arya even more sad. 

“My lady,” Arya said with an inelegant curtsy. 

“Where are _ you _ going?”

“My chambers,” Arya said quickly and truly, “to get some rest.”

“I’ll have some dreamwine brought to you at once. And something to eat, you haven’t eaten in days … not properly.” 

Arya nodded.

Arya had no energy to oppose her sister and the thought of a long sleep full of sweet wolf dreams, and her warm furs to engulf herself in, sent tingly spikes down her belly. Arya gave her sister a simple nod and smile before taking off. Her boots tapped the stone floors with every step she took. 

Winterfell was incredibly quiet as of late. As she walked the castle she noticed there were stonemasons repairing the castle from the Ice Dragon’s fire; from the dead’s wrath. She could hear the horses in the stables, she could hear Ser Brienne’s grunts in the courtyard while she sparred with poor Northern fools who hadn’t stood a chance against her. She heard the sound of the wind whistling, and the small folk speaking amongst each other. The last thing she heard was the sound of steel being hit. It was coming from the forge. For a second Arya could hear Gendry’s ghost in the depths of the forge, in the sounds of the hammer hitting the steel.

The play of the young man’s muscles came into Arya’s mind the second she entered her chambers. She thought of how he looked when he worked. Concentrated. His blue eyes would be deep in focus, his arms would be tensed, his face would look hard. His skin would be covered in soot and his hair would look pitch-black drenched in it’s own greasy sweat. 

Arya laid upon her featherbed and brushed her fingers to her cheeks and then to her lips. She closed her eyes and thought of his smell. He smelled of smoke, sweat, and … leather. But there had been something else in there as well … Arya couldn’t put her finger on it. _ What was it? _ When she thought about that smell, that distinct smell, her eyes rolled back behind her head. 

Gendry might have possibly been the last person alive that could make her feel less alone. “Gendry …” she said softly, almost like a prayer. She shut her eyes before the tears could escape. They leaked out anyway, down her cheeks, and onto her furs. 

Gendry

Gendry was spending most of his time in Storm End’s library with Maester Jurne. The Maester had a stern voice, and was blunt and honest in speech. _He wasn’t so old_, Gendry thought. The maester was strong and steady. The older man walked with his back straight and his head held high despite all the chains he wore around his neck. Maester Jurne had a full-set of black hair with specs of gray in the middle. Gendry took a liking to the man, even though the maester was harsh and overly-disciplined when it came to Gendry’s lessons. Gendry found that he liked that though, because because of it, he had learned to read and write in the span of three moons — though not as well as the Maester would have liked. 

“Good,” Maester Jurne said with a stiff nod when Gendry wrote his first scroll with little assistance, “We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us,” he said even more stiffly as he began gathering his belongings. “You should go have your supper now.” The tall man stood and turned to Gendry, and as he bowed gracefully he said, “my lord.”

Gendry stood up at once, half-heartedly and almost awkwardly, “thank you,” he said before heading off. The old man nodded graciously and with that Gendry retired from his studies. 

He hadn’t grown used to the castle yet. It was massive to Gendry, excessively massive. It still hadn’t felt like it was his at all. He felt it belonged more to the serving wenches, the cooks, the squires, and the watchmen, then it had to him. The castellan, Ser Gilbert Farring was the one who took care of the castle, who really took care of the castle. It was to him that Gendry felt the castle belonged. Ser Davos told Gendry time and time again that this was his home now, that he _belonged_ here, but Gendry could not help feel lost and empty inside his own halls, inside his own chambers even.

The sound of the thundering rain showers and water hitting stone were all such foreign sounds to him. Flea bottom had always been relatively bright, and the weather was calm and warm. Even the rain showers in the Riverlands were soft and gentle compared to those of the Stormlands. He wasn’t sure that he liked it. He liked some aspects of Storm’s End, of course. He liked the good food, the warm bed, and he liked the forge — he’d go whenever nothing was expected of him. There the hours would go quickly, there he couldn’t hear the roaring thunders or feel the numbness in his chest. If not for just a little while, he had the liberty to not think, to not think about anything, to not think about the dead that haunted his dreams, to not think about _ her_. That’s how he’d prefer it, he told himself again and again. 

Part of him felt angry with Arya. Angry that she’d willingly abandon him, that she could shake him off like fleas. High-borns had always made him feel that way, had always made him feel like less, like a stray dog with nothing to offer; like a burden. He always thought Arya wasn’t like the rest of them. He thought she was different, less cold, more caring. He considered that he might have been wrong, at least partially. He tried to convince himself that she was as cruel and selfish as all the other high-borns he had the displeasure of knowing, but he always managed to fail. The girl he knew was anything but cruel, anything but selfish. 

Still, even as a _ Baratheon _ she did not want him. And he did not have anything left to offer her. Suddenly, Gendry’s appetite was gone. He had been thinking about that pork stew all day and now the mere idea of it upset his stomach. Gendry decided to retire to his chambers. Proper rest was foreign to him, still he decided that he would at least try. 

Arya 

_ There were many of them. The wolves ran through the snow with the dark snowy trees beside them. Arya had no idea where they were running to. She was always the fastest, always the strongest, and the biggest, but this time it was different. Around her were the smaller wolves. They had gray and brown fur. They were protecting her — it seemed. They ran closer to her than usual. In front of her ran a giant wolf. A white wolf. A **direwolf**, like she herself had been. The wolf stopped and the rest of the pack followed the gesture. When the large white wolf turned, it’s red eyes looked back at her alarmingly. It stepped towards her, sniffed her, and nudged her. _

_ Suddenly she felt weak. Perhaps she hadn’t had enough game, or perhaps she was injured, Arya did not know. The white wolf had nudged her again before laying beside her in the snow. The rest of the wolves laid down beside her. There were about ten of them with her, along with the giant white wolf. The moon shined brightly in the starry sky, and the stars were plenty and just as radiant as the moon. The white wolf broke out in a long loud howl all of a sudden. All the other wolves broke out in the song as well … except for her. _

Arya woke up to the pounding of her wooden door. Her eyes opened in an instant. The loud sound sent a sudden adrenaline into her bones. Her heart began to beat harshly beneath her chest. The pounding of the wooden door continued. It took her a second to compose herself, to remind herself that she was safe. She was _home_. In Winterfell she was strong. 

_ In Winterfell I am strong. In Winterfell I am strong. _

“My lady, I’ve got your supper and your dreamwine,” a sweet voice called out behind the thick wooden doors. Arya sat up on her bed. Her fingers still shaking from the obnoxiously loud knocking. She turned her hands into fists and looked up towards the door bravely. 

“Come in,” she said.

In came the girl. She was young, Arya thought. Not much older than Arya was. The girl’s name was Amiria. She had light chestnut brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her face was very round. She was thin and small, much like Arya. Unlike Arya she was overly-sweet and jittery, and she was not as light on her feet. She wore a corset with simple serving-girl garments, they were gray, the same gray as Winterfell’s walls and banners. 

Amiria laid down the tray on the table closest to Arya. Arya watched her as she began to pour the dreamwine into a small goblet. She followed that by picking up the fork and knife at the side of the tray. She began to cut up the slab of bloody meat on Arya’s plate.

“There’s no need for that,” Arya said quickly as she stood from her bed and made her way towards Amiria. Except Arya hadn’t made it the couple steps to the girl. The second Arya’s bare feet had hit the cold floor, Arya felt her head become light, too light. Before she could do a thing, her entire body was on the floor, and she felt hot all of a sudden, like she had fallen into Winterfell’s hot springs. 

“My lady!” The girl screamed. Arya could suddenly feel the room spinning. The way it would’ve spun with too much Dornish wine, or the way it had spun when she was in King’s Landing and the ashes rained down upon her. Amiria held her on the ground and attempted to help her stand, but Arya could not. Just like Nymeria in her dreams, she could not get up, no matter how hard she pushed. “Someone, please! The Princess! Get the maester!” Arya felt the girl’s soft palm on her forehead and cheeks before she heard, “Summon Maester Wolkan, now!”

Then the room went black.

…

The dim sunlight peeked through the glass windows when Arya finally woke up. The opening from her window brought a chill into her chambers, and into her bones. Arya shivered. It was morning. Although she was under her furs, she still felt cold. It took Arya a moment to realize that she had been stripped down to her small clothes, and another to realize that Sansa was in her chambers, sat beside her, sewing some pretty little thing. 

“How did you sleep?” Sansa asked without taking her eyes from her needle. Arya watched as Sansa’s fingers worked quickly and gracefully. 

“Good,” Arya croaked dishonestly. She felt worse than she had the night prior, her head had already begun to pound, and she started to feel ill again, almost instantly. Perhaps a fever was about to take her. The thought made her content for a little while. _I_ _could be free … _she thought,_ I could be with Jon … with Nymeria. _But the second she thought of a lonesome Sansa, she pushed the thought away, she pushed it farther away when she thought of her distant king little brother. And a second later, when she thought of the stubborn black-haired boy with the bright blue eyes, she felt deep remorse for having even thought of it. 

Sansa sighed before her fingers stopped moving and she placed her creation atop of her sister’s bed. Arya noticed that her sister’s eyes were red again, red and swollen. Arya looked back at her sister wondering what had been the matter. _ Had something happened to Gendry? To Bran? _Arya suddenly feared the worst. She felt her heart drop to her stomach. 

“Arya …” Sansa said dully. “Arya, there’s something you must know.” 

Arya swallowed the lump inside her throat. She used up all her strength to sit up straight. 

“You’re with child.” Sansa paused and looked at Arya, her face was littered with concern and pity. “Maester Wolkan felt movement. He fears … that you might be too far along for moon tea. It could still work but-”

“-I-,”

“-Are you keeping secrets from me?”

“-No!” Arya retorted, it was only half a lie.

“-Did something happen then … did someone … _ hurt _ you?” Arya did not know how to answer her sister. She could hear her sister very clearly, could make out her words, yet could not truly understand. Arya looked into her sisters eyes and saw sadness, and worry. There had been moments when Arya wondered if Sansa had ever truly loved her. As she Looked into her sister’s eyes, she realized that _ this _ hadn’t been one of those moments. 

“No,” Arya said again, this time softer. 

Sansa seemed surprised. Though the sadness was still present on her face. “Arya … Have you _lied_ with someone?” Arya looked away embarrassed. Arya could feel Sansa study her face as a silence briefly filled the room. Arya bit her lip. “Arya, _Who_ have you lied with?”

“No one,” Arya answered. 

“_Arya_.”

“There’d be no father. It’d be a nameless bastard. Wouldn’t even be a Snow,” Arya said defiantly. 

“Arya! Do you realize what you’ve done? What will the Northern houses think of Arya Stark with a nameless bastard in her belly? The dishonor!”

“I don’t care what they think!” 

“Tell me. Tell me who it is or I’ll have you betrothed to the first great lord who’ll have you.” 

“I’d be gone before you’ve even gotten the chance.”

“Arya!” Sansa shouted, annoyance was evident in her tone. It hadn’t been common for Sansa to lose her temper, in fact, it had been the angriest that Arya had seen her sister. “You’re being stupid. Are you so eager to dishonor our house?” Sansa stood up angrily from her chair. “It’s bad enough that we’re women! Now we’re dishonorable women!” She took a second to compose herself. She straightened out her dark gown before grabbing her embroidery, who Arya noticed was of a white horse. Sansa coughed, as a way to clear her voice. Then she closed her eyes and inhaled. A moment later, there was a loud deep exhale.

Suddenly, Sansa’s voice was calm and soft once more, “What would Jon think?” She said before making her way out towards the door. “You disgrace his memory.” She spat as she began to walk away.

Arya felt that lump again, it was growing inside her throat. It had hurt her to swallow this time. She wanted to say something, but saying it, saying his name would’ve made it all the more real. _ What would Jon think? _She thought of Jon when they were children. He’d be sitting at the tables with the small folk, away from the rest of the Starks. It had been Ned, Catelyn, Robb, Sansa, Bran, and Rickon and her, all together, like a proper family. Jon would be by his lonesome self. He’d be frowning, Arya remembered. At times she’d catch him looking over at them; he’d look so lonely. If her mother had allowed her, she would’ve sat beside him without a second thought. 

“Sansa,” Arya called out suddenly. “Gendry. Gendry Baratheon.” 

Sansa gave her sister one last look of disappointment before she walked out of her chambers, gently closing the door behind her. 

Gendry 

It wasn’t raining when Gendry made it to Storm End’s courtyard. He was practicing with his warhammer, building up his strength, working on his speed. His master-at-arms was Elwood Meadows, he was not much older than Gendry but he was better skilled with his sword. Gendry never much liked swords, he was never fast enough. When he had been traveling the Riverlands with Arya and Hot Pie, it seemed like even little Arya had been better skilled with a sword than he ever had. He was five years her senior ... the thought embarrassed him slightly.

A roaring thunder struck the sky in the instance that Gendry blocked one of Elwood’s wooden-sword strikes. Gendry turned, and just as he was about to hit the young man with a hammer-blow to his temple, Gendry abruptly stopped and smirked just slightly. The man looked terrified, he wished Gendry hadn’t practiced with his hammer but rather a stick of some sorts — something less lethal. It was bad enough that Gendry was practically twice Elwood’s size. Gendry still urged him to settle his nerves. Gendry informed him that practicing with a stick wouldn’t build up his strength in any way, and was a waste. He was right, in a way, he had already felt stronger. All at once, it had begun to pour. Beyond Gendry could see the gray beaches below, the hard showers crashing into the water, the skies turning from a light gray to a darker one. 

“Good work, my lord,” Elwood roared over thunder. He was confident but very quiet. It would’ve been nice to have _something_ to talk about with him, Gendry thought. Gendry wasn’t much interested in meaningless conversation but the man was practically a mute. It seemed like no matter how much time Gendry spent with the young man, they’d never have anything to say. It was never that way with Arya, not even with Hot Pie. “I think you’d better be getting inside, you’ve practiced long and hard, my lord.” 

Usually Gendry would’ve insisted they continue, but he felt especially sore that day, and his muscles were begging him for some rest. Ser Davos had also informed him that Storm’s End will be having guests, high-born guests; House Connington, to be exact. The mere idea made Gendry feel even more tired. The raindrops were hitting the top of his head quite violently. It hadn’t taken much time at all for his hair, his cloak, and breeches to be completely drenched in the Stormland showers. Gendry nodded at the man. “Lord Meadows,” he said stiffly before making his way back into the castle, with every step came the sound of a splash. 

…

After three moons, Gendry thought he would’ve grown accustomed to people fixing his bath or fetching his clean clothes for him, but he hadn’t. It still made him uncomfortable. He always sent the chambermaids away. Gendry liked to do things on his own, that was, if they hadn’t already done it for him. Gendry made it a priority to do things before the smallfolk amongst the castle walls could be assigned to do it for him. He had boiled his own water for his bath, brushed out the dirt from his own skin, and picked out his own trousers and tunic; the ones that were suited for bed. It was then that he decided to sleep, that is, before a knock interrupted the chance for him to do so. 

“My lord,” another knock was heard, “I’ve got your supper,” It was Maester Jurne’s stern voice. Gendry wanted to send him away, in fact he had been seconds from doing so before the maester spoke his next words. “And a raven from Winterfell.” Gendry bolted up from the featherbed at once, an energy consumed him, an energy he hadn’t possessed just a few moments prior. 

“Come in,” Gendry said at once. He felt his chest pound. He hadn’t liked the feeling, and he told himself he did not understand it. He was angry with her, he reminded himself. She was in Winterfell, she hadn’t truly cared for him, hadn’t truly loved him. Perhaps little-Arya had, but not the woman she had been now. 

Maester Jurne opened the heavy castle door and entered the room, as rigid and straight as ever. He held the tray with Gendry’s supper on one hand, and a scroll on the other. Gendry’s eyes had gone straight to the scroll. The stew smelled heavenly, Gendry thought, and he could see the smoke rising above it, but the thought of what might lie in the scroll sent rocks down his stomach. The maester put down the tray beside Gendry before turning his attention to his lord. 

“Would you like me to read it for you, my lord?” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Gendry protested, “I’ll read slow.” 

“Very well,” the tall old man said before bowing ever so slightly, and making his way out of the room with a quiet, “my lord.” Gendry hadn’t dared open the letter until the door shut with a loud, “_clack!_”

Gendry opened the scroll so quickly that he ended up slightly ripping the tough parchment. It had taken him a long time to decipher the words in the strange penmanship. But once he had determined each word, he read the scroll again, and then once more. It hadn’t been until the third time, fourth time maybe, that he understood everything. 

_ Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm’s End, I have come to present you with a proposition. It has always been my understanding that our fathers were great friends. It seems as if the union between House Stark and House Baratheon is long overdue. It has also come to my understanding that you have come to know my sister Arya Stark well. Based on my knowledge, very well. I wish for us to join our forces. I will be patiently waiting on your response. I ask that you please not accept any arrangements made by House Connington, not until you have made your decision and thought long and hard on it. I’d advise to hold out on said arrangements until my sister has arrived at Storm’s End. _

_ I would like for respectful accommodations to be made for her. She will be arriving in a fortnight. She is not in the best health. Please have Maester Jurne examine her as soon as she is to arrive. I hope you will consider all of House Stark’s honor before making a decision. _

_ Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Princess of The Seven-Kingdoms _

_ House Stark’s honor? _ Gendry thought to himself. What might she have meant by that? Gendry sat atop his featherbed and brushed his fingers through his dark hair. His hair had gotten so long since he last saw her. _ Would she like it like this? Or did she like it shorter? Would she like his beard? _Gendry lied on his back with his feet dangling off his bed. His eyes feasted on the stone ceiling above him as he thought about the letter, again, and again, trying to truly understand what it meant. He knew three things already, but he felt as if there was something else beneath the surface.

Gendry knew that in less than a fortnight, he was going to see Arya again. The thought made him sick, made the warm smell of stew in his chambers unpleasant and unwelcoming. He knew that Ronnet Connington and Alynne Connington had the intention of coming to Storm’s End with a purpose. The idea made Gendry feel anxious, he did not know how to speak to lords and ladies. Not really. He preferred the company of the smallfolk, it was like the high-borns always had a way of twisting his words, and making him feel stupid and little. And he was always so blunt, being diplomatic was not in his blood. 

The last thing Gendry knew, for sure, was that Sansa intended for him and Arya to marry. Gendry wondered if Sansa truly knew her sister, had known what she really wanted. _ Arya would never have agreed to this, _ Gendry thought. It hadn’t been long ago that Gendry had asked Arya to be his wife, the thought made him angry, made him feel stupid all over again. Arya did not want to marry him, she made that blatantly clear already. _ Why should I marry someone who doesn’t want me? And not just anyone, but a bloody princess now! _Gendry thought of Bran Stark as king, he wondered if Arya’s brother would be any different from any king who came before him. Gendry crumbled the tough parchment in his fist and there it across the room in a rage. 

Even in his anger, the thought of her in Storm’s End elevated him, just ever so slightly. The sounds of thunder, and the water splashing against the concrete, made him feel as if he were in a daze suddenly, in a dream, a sweet dream. 

_ “Arya,” _ he said, almost in a whisper. He fell back on his bed, landing on his back. 

It was almost like the walls had started to close around him, a warmth entered the room — the smell of rain, the smell of Arya Stark. She smelled of rain, Earth and sweetness. It had just been a touch of sweetness most days, but it had smelt potent to him that one day especially ... the day they laid together, the night before the Battle of Winterfell. That sweetness was all over her skin, almost like she had bathed in it, had scrubbed herself with it. 

_ Roses_, he thought. _ A chill and cold aroma of roses. _

Gendry remembered that night in copious detail. He had arrived to the grain stores, just as she had asked him to, to deliver her weapon. He remembered how time-consuming it had been, but how proud he felt when it had been completed. The thought brought a smile to Gendry’s face. The events that took place after made him feel even warmer. Arya had wanted to make love for the first time, and although unexpected, he knew there was nothing that could make him oppose her wish. He had probably wanted it more than her, in fact, he knew he had. They thought they would die, and Gendry remembered how happy he was that she hadn’t already shared that moment with another. She’d be his before anyone else’s … not that Arya would ever truly belong to anyone. 

When she had taken off her tunic, he had began to remove his trousers, but not before his eyes feasted on her womanly form. Her breasts had been small but round and even. Her belly was small and warm and the scars that marked her were deep, bold, and terrifying. When Arya had freed herself from her pants, Gendry had already felt his length completely erected at the mere sight of her vulnerable state. But she hadn’t let herself be _ entirely _ vulnerable. Arya had laid on top of him, the grains felt uncomfortable on his back. But he could not mind it, not with her lips slowly working away with his, not with the warmth of her cunt beating down on his lower belly. 

Gendry had wanted to kiss her everywhere. He had kissed her neck and her collarbones, while she made low little whimpers. Her eyes had been closed, but she still remained tense the entire time. Gendry’s mouth had gone from her mouth, to her neck, to her collarbone, and onto her chest. He could tell she had especially liked that by the tightening of her grip on his back. He suckled her teats slowly and graciously, almost trying to savor her. More noises had come out of Arya’s mouth, they sounded muffled, almost as if she were trying to suppress it.

She had began to kiss him again, harshly and rapidly. She had grabbed his face as they had tasted one another, fast and desperately. She had already begun to align her cunt with his cock, she hadn’t wanted to wait any longer, and neither had he, but something had stopped him.

“Wait-Arya-,” he had said out of breath. 

Gendry’s fingers had found the moisture inside of Arya. 

“-What are you doing,” She had said in an exasperated breathy strain. 

She whimpered as his wet sticky fingers had found that sensitive spot, that delicate pearl. He had rubbed her with two strong fingers. Her breathy low-sounding mumbles had sent blurry stars to his vision. 

It hadn’t been until she was sleek and drenched that Gendry allowed her to sit upon him. She hadn’t known what she was doing for once, the idea that he had been better at something than her made him smile, well something besides smithing. Arya had her soft fingers around his length. The gesture made him throb. Arya had attempted to place his large cock inside her, it had been at least three times that she tried. She had been failing miserably, and squirming in discomfort. As Gendry watched her confused facial expressions, and weird awkward movements, he felt he was going to laugh. A second later, he had. 

“It’s not funny!” Arya had blushed in embarrassment before she punched him in the arm. 

“Here, let me help, m’lady,” Gendry had smirked but Arya just looked back at him closely, deep-focus in her eyes, she still looked a little embarrassed.

Gendry had lifted her arse and Arya had made a noise before lifting herself slightly. She trembled suddenly. He carefully placed the tip of his cock where it had aligned with her cunt and slowly, ever so slowly, aided her hips down. Arya and Gendry had made a noise for every half-inch he had entered her, and when he had been as deep as he was going to get, they both sighed sweetly. The tightness had been sweet, Gendry had thought, _ too sweet_. He had never experienced anything like it. It hadn’t taken Arya long to get used to the rhythm. She rocked up and down, sometimes side to side on his cock. She did it in a sweet swaying motion, in a sweet pattern. _She had always been a good rider._

“Arya-”

Arya had her eyes closed, but her mouth had been slightly open. Delicate sounds were coming out of her mouth. He heard her say his name, so low, he had almost missed it. 

“Arya-” Gendry had called again but Arya did not listen, did not slow down. “-Ah,” it had come out in a grunt. It was the last thing he could say before his seed came gushing out inside of her, not leaving a drop on her body or his, not leaving a drop on the grains. Arya had collapsed on top of him and for a while they had just laid like that, with his cock still inside her, with her naked body against his. Gendry could feel how fast her heart had been beating. 

“Don’t die,” she had told him quietly. 

“You either.” he responded in a short breath. 

Arya nodded in agreement before freeing Gendry of her weight, and pulling him out of her. They made a noise. Arya laid down beside him on the grain. He had taken his cloak from the ground and placed it on top of her and him, it had been mostly over her. She had turned her back to him and laid on her side with her hands hugging her body. She had done that often, Gendry thought as he recalled their years on the road. He closed his eyes and gave her the space she required. 

…

Gendry awoke with his hands inside his trousers. With the thunder and the showers ceased. All Gendry could hear now was a soft ringing in his ear. That along with the strong waves crashing against the castle walls. When he pulled his hands out of his pants, they were sticky and moist. Gendry wiped his hand on his clothes and sat up on his bed. The dull blue morning light shined through his chambers. He spotted the scroll once more and became distraught. His face turned sour. 

He thought of Sansa Stark’s words once more. _I hope you will consider all of House Stark’s honor before making a decision. _ Gendry stood from his bed abruptly to retrieve the bunched-up scroll from the floor. He read the words again. And again, and again. Until suddenly the words, _she__ is not in the best health. Please have Maester Jurne examine her as soon as she is to arrive, _had a whole new meaning. Gendry felt horrible all of a sudden, horrible but light, in a way that he could not explain. _ Now for this, she’d never forgive me,_ he thought. That thought was quickly clouded by the vision of a black-haired little girl, in a flowing yellow dress, running into his arms. 


	2. The Gray of the Stormlands

Arya 

The carriage ride had been rocky and uncomfortable. All Arya wanted was to go back home. She had already been away from home for so long, and now the circumstances had taken her away from Winterfell once more. Arya wondered if she’d ever truly belong to Winterfell again, as wholeheartedly as her Sister Sansa had. It was always Sansa who despised the cold summers, the gloomy springs and the Old Gods. And it was Arya that loved them with all of her heart. No matter how empty she felt, she knew part of her heart would always belong to Winterfell, she knew that nothing could keep her away forever. The prospect of returning home, sometime soon, made her smile. 

Arya peeked out of the old Stark-carriage and saw green, tall trees of deep greens. The stumps were long and dark, and the branches were short and few. The day was gloomy, and the smell of rain and grass engulfed her. The sound of galloping horses, and the chatter of the Northmen, who came along with her, were the sounds that had woken her up that morning. Arya was getting minuscule amounts of sleep. She still felt ill, and found that the movements of the carriage were making her awfully nauseated. 

Amiria came along with her. Arya had told her to stay in Winterfell, but the girl persisted. Arya did not oppose the girl, she thought her company would have been better than none. Also, Sansa insisted. The girl was sweet, but she talked way too much at times. _And_ she had the tendency to help Arya against Arya’s wishes, still Arya felt grateful for her. Arya wished more than anything that she could go back to her old self, to the Arya that was full of energy, who did things on her own: a woman of action. The baby inside her had been slowly robbing her of who she was. 

Amiria woke up to the rattling of the carriage passing through a rocky road. Her hair was fashioned in a simple long side-braid that fell to her stomach. The girl fashioned Arya’s hair the same way, except Arya’s hair wasn't nearly as long, just barely going past her shoulders. Amiria wore her simple gray serving-girl dress. It had already started to look worn-out. Arya was in a simple tunic and breeches. She found that her leather jerkin had begun to feel uncomfortably snug around her belly. 

The uneasy motion of the rocky road did nothing for Arya. With every rock that the wheels went over, Arya could feel her throat tremble, and could feel the thing inside her kick. She hadn’t felt it kick before she knew it was there, but now it was all she felt. It wasn’t until the fifth consecutive kick that Arya began to feel the prior night’s rabbit moving up towards her throat. She made an abrupt belching noise before she brought her hands up to her mouth. 

“My lady!” Amiria shouted. Amiria grabbed Arya’s arms and looked deep into her eyes in worry. “Do you want me to tell them to stop?” Arya nodded, her hands still tightly wrapped around her mouth. 

As soon as the carriage made a complete halt, Arya started throwing up. The vile got on her tunic, and her breeches, but none had gotten inside of the carriage. More of her vile came out on the bumpy ground road. Arya reached for a tree to find her balance. It was the tenth-time since she left Winterfell that this had happened. Amiria placed her hand gently on Arya’s back and caressed her before giving her a drink from her water skins. Arya drank quickly, and the girl wiped Arya’s mouth with a wolf-embroidered handkerchief. 

“Thank you, Amiria,” Arya had told the girl with a sadness and a hopelessness in her tone. 

The girl smiled back at Arya sadly before she helped her back into the carriage.   


Gendry

Ronnet and Alynne Connington arrived 9-days prior from Arya’s expected arrival. They arrived with around 30 Connington men from Griffin’s Roost. The travel had not been very long, it had actually been incredibly modest compared to that of Arya Stark’s. The Conningtons were warm to Gendry, a bit too warm perhaps. Gendry had already developed the impression that the Stormland-folk had been serious, grim, and austere. The Connington men were that, by all means, but Ronnet and Alynne had been _too_ diplomatic. It was a type of cordiality that Gendry found rare since he arrived at Storm’s End. Gendry felt tense among his visitors. 

“Heavens! It truly is young Robert Baratheon in the flesh!” Gendry hadn’t known what to say to that, he only nodded. He hadn’t known his father, hadn’t ever met him, hadn’t ever seen him in the flesh, he wouldn’t have known. Nor would he have cared to have known.

“Welcome to Storm’s End, lord Connington, lady Connington. Make yourselves ... comfortable,” Gendry said stiffly. It was what Maester Jurne told him to say. “Have Ser Gilbert, or Ser Harlick, guide you to your chambers.” 

Gendry was about to walk off but Ronnet stopped him. “Oh we’re in no hurry, my lord,” Ronnet declared with a slight bow. Gendry wanted it to end, his thoughts had gone to the forge, and to his bed. Ronnet had a husky appearance to him, as most Stormlanders seemed to have. He was of average height, had a red beard, and red hair, _an orange-red_, Gendry thought, _like a carrot_. His sister had the same kind of hair, except hers was silky and soft-looking. It fell down to her hips. She wore a deep-red velvet gown with white gloves. She was tall for a girl, and big-breasted. The Connington faces were all heart-shaped and pleasant, and their eyes a pale blue. 

“My sister, Alynne,” the man gestured for his sister and she stood in front of Gendry and curtsied. 

“My lord,” she said softly before she returned to her regal stance, her gloved-hands folded in front of her. 

Gendry bowed rudely, and proceeded to look around when silence had briefly erupted in the hall. It was close to supper. Gendry had planned for his guests’ _special_ supper for the following day, but the Conningtons and their men arrived ravenous, and a day too early. 

“Join us for supper then?” Gendry suggested in a slightly-annoyed tone.

“Supper! Yes! Wonderful Idea, my lord.” Ronnet answered as he and his sister smiled sweetly. They then retired from the hall to prepare themselves for their meals. As they walked off, Gendry could hear Ronnet loudly telling his men how much Gendry looked like Robert, and how he could not believe it. As they walked, Alynne turned and met Gendry’s eyes. Gendry looked closely thinking she wanted to tell him something, but all she did was smirk at him. 

… 

Supper had been nothing special. Gendry thought it was fine. Supper that night had been leek soup and Nettle tea. The day after was to be a honey-glazed pig, buttered potatoes, and wine from the Arbor. Gendry told Ser Gilbert not to spend any more money on luxuries after the pig-and-wine supper. Ser Gilbert advised Gendry that luxuries were _necessary_ and that a lord had to be _hospitable_, towards his guests. Gendry listened but still stood his ground, against the castellan’s advice. _“No. More. Feasts.”_

The hall was quiet, quieter than it usually was. The walls were dark, wide, and rounded. The candles in the hall made the hall look yellow and inviting, where it often looked gray and gloomy. It was raining lightly, the rain could only be heard when the chatter in the hall died down, as soon as it rose again, the sound of the rain ceased from Gendry’s ears once more. 

Gendry sat upon the small elevated table in the front of the hall. Gendry normally avoided the lord’s table, and often sat in the benches with Ser Davos and the smallfolk. But his guests had beckoned to him when they saw him about to sit among the commoners. Gendry approached them. “Sit _here_, my lord,” Alynne had insisted. He looked at the girl blankly. “I don’t bite.” 

Gendry plopped down on the chair in the center, the one Alynne had pointed at, and sat with Ronnet to his right and Alynne to his left. 

Ronnet spoke loudly and crudely. Gendry was too exhausted, and too hungry, to have engaged in conversation. He found himself thinking that wine or ale would have made all this more bearable. Gendry inhaled his soup. He watched the men, women, and children in the hall eat and speak amongst each other.

Ronnet commented about how nice it was of Gendry to invite some of the commoners to the castle to eat with him. Gendry thought the man’s tone sounded insincere. Ronnet seemed to notice this and quickly changed the subject. He started to speak about all the men he’s killed, and about who his first kill had been. 

Alynne was as quiet as Gendry, as she ate her soup in the most gentle way a person could eat soup. Gendry was nearly done with his, and was getting ready to retire to his chambers, but not before Ronnet asked Gendry how many people he’s killed. 

“Well. Do the dead count?” Gendry asked. The table fell quiet. Gendry had forgotten that the people of the south did not believe in the events that had taken place in the North. The white walkers, and the Army of The dead were all stories to them. The thought made Gendry angry. The losses the soldiers of the Battle of Winterfell faced were immense. As were the losses of the entire North. Innocent children had died. If they hadn’t believed it, they could go visit The Last Hearth, and see what’s become of it. 

“I suppose, my lord,” Ronnet responded after slight hesitation. 

Gendry scoffed, “Hundreds then,” and then he got up. Everyone got up with him. Gendry looked around before calmly storming off from the hall. His steps were heavy, and his hands turned into tight fists at his sides. He could feel eyes pierce his back as he trailed off. 

When Gendry made it to his chambers, he slammed the door behind him. He stripped off his cloak, jerked off his black jerkin, and pulled off his boots in a hard yank. When his body made it into bed, he sighed loudly. It was dark, only two candles were lit in the entirety of the vast cold room. Gendry, for the first time, found comfort in the storm. With the sudden erupting thunder overhead, he shut his eyes and tried to summon the sweet dreams consisting of the she-wolf. But alas, he dreamt of the army of the dead instead.   


…

Gendry thought he heard a knock on his door but ignored it the first time. Then another. It hadn’t been until the third knock that he decided to get up. He sat up suddenly rubbing his eyes in confusion. He did not know who it was, but he assumed it was Maester Jurne. He sat up suddenly and bolted towards the door, when he considered, for a second, that the maester brought news of Arya. When he opened the door, it wasn’t a tall older man, but rather a girl in red robes with a candle on a brass candle-holder. 

“I’m sorry, my lord. Truly, I am,” Alynne said in a hushed whisper. “I … I just wanted a word. If it please, my lord.” Gendry could see through the girl’s robes from the light coming through her candle. He could see her smallclothes — her corset. Her breasts looked as if they wanted to jump out of the tight fabric. 

The girl’s visit was incredibly random to Gendry. He had no idea what she could have possibly wanted in such a late hour. Gendry was sure anything the girl wanted to say could have waited until morning. 

“What?” Gendry asked coldly.

“Well … could I come in, my lord?” Alynne pleaded in a whisper. 

“Why?” Gendry asked again.

“I’d like to discuss … _private_ matters,” she looked around the corridors as she said it, her whisper was quieter.

Gendry thought that the sooner they spoke, the sooner she’d leave him be. He opened the door ever-so-slightly and she walked in with a curtsy. 

Gendry went by the fireplace where his candles hung in his chambers. He took one lit candle and began to light the ones that hadn’t been lit. His movements were stiff and awkward. He moved towards the dark wooden table that was placed in the opposite corner of the featherbed. There was one large chair, with the carvings of a stag, tucked inside the table. Gendry seated himself on the table and pulled the chair out with his foot for Alynne.

The girl gave Gendry a tiny smile before she sat on the chair beside him, ever so gracefully. 

“I did not like how things escalated in the hall. My brother and I do not mistrust your credibility, my lord, I can assure you of that.” Her facial expression looked genuine for the most part. “My brother was just tired, you see, from our long ride.” 

“I know you lot don’t believe it.” Gendry paused, shaking his head, “The losses the Northerners suffered-” Gendry scoffed, unable to finish his sentence, feeling his anger start to bubble again. 

There’s a silence and then “I trust you,” the girl said as she leaned in closer to Gendry. “Even if the other lords might not.”

Alynne placed her hands on top of Gendry’s. She looked deeply into his eyes. He looked at her hands, and then at her face. “I must tell you something, my lord.” 

Gendry looked closely at the girl, confused.

“The Stormlanders feel conflicted by your rule. They do not think a bastard from Flea bottom is fit to rule. They do not consider the dragon queen’s brief reign a genuine one. Do you understand?” 

Gendry pulled back his hand from the girl’s grasp. Alynne looked down at her lap, and in a defeated manner, she carefully placed her hands there. “There are greater matters than lords and ladies feeling conflicted.” Gendry responded at once, as he stood from the table, ready to put the gossip aside and try to rest. 

Alynne pulled back from Gendry in the chair. She looked at him closely with her small piercing eyes, almost studying him. Gendry could hear the thunder cracking outside the walls. She looked as though she was about to say something, but it took her awhile to get it out. 

“It might put the Stormlanders at ease _if_ ... we were to join our houses.” 

“_Join_ houses?” Gendry retorted suddenly. He felt stupid for not having expected it, especially after Sansa Stark’s letter warned him of such a thing.

“Yes, my lord. House Connington is a respected house in the Stormlands-”

“-I don’t care about that, Lady Alynne-”

“-But you should! My brother and I fear for your safety, my lord,” the girl’s small eyes became glassy and panicked. Gendry wanted nothing more than to be left alone. “We can help one another-we can.” She said. “Not all us high-borns are the same, my lord.” 

Gendry’s stomach turned. The girl stood at once, stood close to Gendry, her robes opening as she did. She had reached for his arm, this time, and placed her palm on his elbow gently. She looked up at Gendry, she was tall but Gendry still towered over her. Gendry attempted to inch away when she leaned over closer. “I hope you can see that my brother and I want to help. It’s why we came,” she said in a low voice, “let us help.” 

Alynne stroked his arm before she went back to her candle-holder on the table. As she walked towards the door, her robe fell over shoulders, exposing her freckled pale skin. When Alynne reached the door, she looked back towards Gendry and curtsied. “My lord,” she said in her dismissal. As she walked out, she did so almost seductively, painfully slowly, with her very-womanly hips swaying from side to side. 

When Gendry closed the door behind her, he found himself rolling his eyes. “_Lords and ladies_,” he heard himself mumble. 

Arya 

“Where are we now?” Arya asked the Northman from the opening of the carriage. All she saw was green. The Northman was called Lief. He had been a Stark soldier for as long as Arya could remember. She had never spoken to him before their ongoing travel, but she had remembered his name long ago. 

“The Kingswood, my lady. Nearly at Haystack Hall. We’ve nearly made it.” Lief was on a black horse on her side of the carriage. Another soldier called Arthur was on the opposite side, the side where Amiria sat. Amira was sunken in a deep sleep. Arya found that she liked Lief a little better than Arthur. Lief was kind and warm, but protective and strong. He reminded her of Jon in every way but appearance. The man had yellow hair, hazel eyes, and had a stocky and bulky build. He looked as southern as they come, and Jon looked as northern … as did she. 

The past couple of days Arya found that she felt a little better, but nowhere near as well as she should have felt. She had already been sick on all the clothes she brought with her. Amiria insisted Arya wear her prettiest dress. It was a flowy blue dress with winter flowers fashioned on the collar. The sleeves were spacious and elegant. Arya had refused. They instead agreed on one of Amiria’s serving-girl dresses. A simple and plain dark-gray dress that had reminded Arya of something she could have worn in Braavos. Arya felt comfortable in the dress. It was roomy, spacious, and horribly dull.

Arya began to feel movement again, hard and vigorous movement. She groaned in discomfort as she clutched her stomach. It had almost been a month since she left Winterfell, had almost been a month since she found out there was a small person inside of her. A whimper escaped Arya’s mouth as she felt another hard kick. Arya closed her eyes tightly and waited for the moment to pass, it always did eventually. 

“My lady …” Amiria’s soft sleepy-voice called out in a yawn. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine,” Arya said in a strained voice, “It’ll pass.” Arya squeezed on her furs tightly, and a second later, the discomfort passed.

Arya sighed. Amiria’s hair was now in a new braid that fell down her back. Amiria laid a comforting hand on Arya’s shoulder, and looked warmly into her eyes. 

“You don’t have to call me ‘my lady,’ Amiria. I’m not your lady, I’m your friend,” Arya told the girl seriously. Amiria eyes were warm and friendly. 

“You’re my lady and my friend,” the young girl corrected with a little smile. “But Arya it is then,” Amiria squeezed Arya’s hand before sitting back on the carriage.

...

“How are you feeling?” The girl asked after a long silence, her brown eyes expanded. All that was heard for hours were the galloping of the horses, the chirping of birds, and the whistling of the Stormland winds. It seemed to Arya like Amiria wanted to ask her that question for a while.

“I feel better,” Arya stated bravely even though she still felt fatigued and useless. 

“I mean. About. Seeing _him_ ... the Lord Baratheon.”

“I don’t feel anything, Amiria.” Arya said after the mention of his new name sent rocks down her stomach.

“Did you know him well, my lady?” Amiria asked. “_Sorry_ … I meant, Arya.” Amiria whacked herself in the head lightly, it made Arya smile. 

“I did.” Arya confessed. “He was my good friend … for a little while. Sometimes he felt like Family. _Sometimes_.” Amiria looked at Arya closely, wanting to know more about this mysterious man. Arya had not mentioned him once in their entire month of riding. “I wanted him to come to Riverrun with me. And eventually ... _Winterfell. _But he didn’t want. He wanted to stay with The Brotherhood Without Banners.” Arya hesitated. She didn’t want to keep talking about it, but it felt like she had been holding her tongue for an eternity. “He didn’t want me,” no one had truly wanted her, except for maybe Jon Snow, but he was dead anyway. A deep sorrow consumed her all of a sudden. 

The girl could tell that Arya did not want to speak about it any longer. She saw how Arya looked outside, how she became tense, how she covered her face with her hands to hide her vulnerability. “I don’t have anyone. Not anyone except you and lady Sansa.” Amiria said. “She’d never really leave you, you know, and neither would I.” 

Arya did not want to speak about the manner any longer. She did not want to feel that paralyzing numbness again. She did not want to get teary-eyed, not now, not as they were about to arrive at Storm’s End. She did not want Gendry to see her broken, she did not come to be pitied. 

“Sansa wants to marry me off to some lord.” 

“Lady Sansa wants to protect you. It’s her way of doing so.” 

Arya shook her head in slight disbelief. As much as Sansa had irritated her, and disappointed her, Arya could not help but miss her sister. Sansa reminded Arya of her mother so often, especially during the moments where she was tender with her. She thought of Catelyn Stark. She thought of her mother’s arms, of her mother calling her “a wild little thing.” Arya would have done anything to be embraced by her mother in that very moment. Arya felt like a sickly child yearning for it’s mummy. Her father’s embrace would have been just as comforting, if not more. 

“You’re wanted, my lady. I know it!” 

Arya looked into the girl’s brown eyes. Another ‘my lady,’ had slipped past her, but Arya had no energy to fight it that time. Arya looked away from the girl. She averted her eyes back to the green, except it wasn’t green anymore. Everything turned gray. A dark gray. The sound of thunder crashed overhead.

“We will arrive tonight, my lady,” Lief’s warm voice called out to Arya against the booming of the skies. 

  


Gendry

  


Gendry had not slept much that night at all. He witnessed the descent of the moon and the rise of the pale daylight through his glass windows. He felt sore from training with Elwood, and exhausted from his lessons with Maester Jurne. The worst thing about being a lord, Gendry thought, was never being left alone. There had been times when he just simply wanted to spend the day at the forge, or visit Storm’s End’s beach, perhaps even learn how to swim. Gendry had gone out of his way to avoid his guests against Ser Davos’ and the maester’s advice.

Gendry had spoken to Alynne five times after their first real encounter. And none of those times did she mention what they had discussed that first night in his chambers. Alynne had only really spoken to him during supper. She always sat beside him. She would ask him about his life in Flea Bottom, what his weapon of choice was, and about the army of the dead. It was as if anything Gendry told her fascinated her. Gendry was not that dull, he knew he wasn’t that interesting, especially not to a pretty high-born lady like herself. 

There were also times where Alynne would brush her foot on Gendry’s heel. The first three times Gendry thought she’d been having spasms and was accidentally kicking him. Gendry pretended he did not notice. It wasn’t until the fourth time that he noticed it was intentional. He only noticed because the girl had also stroked the back of his hand with her little finger, all-so-sweetly and distinctly. He wondered if any of the Connington men at the Lord's table had noticed, or if any of the smallfolk did. He quickly realized that no one really cared. Not even him. 

Conversations with Ronnet were always short and abrupt. It was obvious that Gendry and Ronnet were not destined to be the best of friends. They sparred together twice in the courtyard since he arrived, but that was as far as their friendship was going to go. Gendry was a private man, and Ronnet anything but. It was as if all Ronnet wanted to speak about was how many women he fucked, how many men he killed, or how much he hated his brother. Gendry could not have cared less, there had been much more important matters.

…

The knock finally came. Gendry expected it all night, but it hadn’t come until the morning. Gendry was already ready. He dressed himself in a simple tunic and breeches. Over that he wore a long black leather jerkin, he had a golden stag fashioned near the collar. He buckled on his belt and wore his castle-forged sword, that he never really used, and put it in it’s black-leather scabbard by his hip. Over everything he wore a brown-yellow cloak.

“Come in,” Gendry did not know how he ought to feel. He wanted to feel happy, to feel relieved, but he couldn’t. He knew that Arya had come with bad news, he knew it deep in his heart, he knew she did not come to marry him. _Not even close ..._

The door whined as it opened. A young boy in a squire’s uniform had come inside. He bowed. Gendry had only seen the young boy twice, once in the hall, and once in the study. He had dark brown shaggy hair, and deep black eyes. Freckles had covered half of his face. He couldn’t have been more than ten-and-two. _Gavin_, Gendry had remembered as his name at once. 

“M’lord, Lady Arya Stark and the Northern men have already been comfortably accommodated, just as you wished.” The boy looked at Gendry then down at his feet. 

“What?” Gendry asked confused, “When did she arrive?” 

“Last night, m’lord.” 

“I asked to be informed as soon as she arrived,” Gendry snapped. 

“I’m sorry, m’lord. Lady Stark fell ill when she first arrived. Maester Jurne informed me not to worry you so late in the night.” The boy spoke quickly and nervously. Gendry felt bad for snapping at him, he had only been a lad.

“It’s alright,” Gendry said and the boy looked up from his feet. Gendry patted the boy in the back. “Take me to her?” Gendry asked warmly. 

“Yes, m’lord,” Gavin answered quickly with the hint of a smile on his face.

...

“Thank you,” Gendry said as he waved off the boy. The young boy bowed slightly before half-walking, half-running off into the dark and narrow corridors. 

Gendry sighed before he decided to knock. No one answered the first time he knocked. Gendry knocked again, this time significantly harder. 

“Who is it?” A strange squeal of a voice called out. Gendry did not recognize the voice. 

“Gendry.” 

Gendry heard fast and loud footsteps, it almost sounded as if the person were stomping towards the door, and then the heavy-door opened with a hard, enthusiastic yank. “My lord!” 

The face that presented itself was not the face he was expecting. In fact, he did not have a single idea who this bubbly girl was. “I’m sorry-who-”

“-Amiria Snow, you don’t know me, my lord. Come in, come in,” the girl was whispering very loudly. She seemed kind of odd to Gendry. She was small and skinny, but not skinny like Arya had been-no. The girl was very child-like in her physique, as well as in her attitude. “She’s been wanting to see you, I know she has.” Gendry entered the room. “She lets on like she doesn’t care, but-” Amiria stopped herself before finishing her sentence. She smiled nervously. There was a fire burning in the fireplace. There were a couple of candles lit, but most of the light was coming from the windows overhead. Still the room was dim. 

The chambers were vast but simple. In front of the fireplace was a large steel tub. It looked like it had already been used. There were two chairs on either side of the large featherbed, Gendry wondered who besides the odd girl had been seated by her. Probably Maester Jurne. The bottles of Milk of the Poppy, and Dreamwine, gave it away. 

“I’ll leave you to speak,” the girl whispered before running off in the manner of an excited little girl.

The door closes quietly behind him. And then he turned to Arya. Gendry finally looked upon Arya Stark. She was laying on her back. She was in a plain gray dress, nothing he had ever seen her in. Her hair was down, her strands fell messily down her shoulders and onto her bed. Her belly had looked swollen, just like he expected. 

He made his way towards her on her bed, his heart beating harder, and harder, the closer he got. He did not want to feel the way he did. He couldn’t understand why he did. Nearly 5 moons ago he thought he was never going to see her again, and now she was right in front of him. And in that moment it felt like nothing had changed, except almost everything had. 

Gendry sat upon the bed and studied her sleeping face. She looked skinnier in the face, neck, and hands. Her eyes had dark shadows under them, and her collarbones looked prominent. Her breasts and stomach looked bigger though. The look of her made Gendry feel sad. But even as she was, Gendry thought she looked beautiful. He gently stroked the scar on Arya’s forehead, and with that, she woke up. He moved his hand away quickly.

“My lady …” he said.

“My lord,” she answered mockingly in a radiant but weak smile, a smile she attempted to mask.

Arya sat up on the bed, and groaned in discomfort as she did. Gendry grabbed her arms to help her, but she pushed his hands away gently. “I’m fine,” she informed him. She dropped her head back and closed her eyes tightly. She breathed in and out before she turned her attention towards Gendry once more. They were close to one another’s faces. Gendry felt light. 

A silence consumed the room. The fire crackling, and the light rain were the only sounds present. Then came the thunder. 

“Why did you come?” 

“You received the raven.”

“Arya … please … just tell me why you’re here.” 

“Sansa and I came to an agreement,” Arya said suddenly, her tone hard and harsh. Arya paused and Gendry looked with deep concentration. His face was tense and already full of anger. “I am to have your bastard. _Here_ in Storm’s End. And it is meant to stay here with you.” Her voice cracked at once. And she swallowed hard before she continued to speak.

“Sansa …” Arya’s voice trembled and her hands shook. “Sansa can not have a bastard disgrace me or House Stark,” the tears finally escaped from her large gray eyes. “She will reward me, she says. No betrothals, no political alliances … not through me.” When another tear escaped from her eyes, Arya wiped it harshly and quickly, almost as a way of almost rejecting her own sorrow. 

“How stupid do you think I am?” Gendry asked, his voice was low and calm but his eyes were full of fire. 

Arya’s face hardened at once. She wiped her wet face with her sleeves once more, this time so hard her face became red. “What do you want me to say?” Arya spat.

Gendry scoffed. “The bloody fucking truth.”

“Please leave me be. I’m tired.” She looked down at her furs, to where her bump was. She was not able to look him in the face. Gendry stared at her stubbornly, waiting for her to say something else, something true. But she was just as stubborn as he was. “Go.” She snapped.

_ I wish I had fallen that night _, Gendry thought suddenly. He didn’t know where it came from, but he thought it. The moment after he thought it, he realized that he meant it. Everything would’ve been so much easier if he had just fallen. 

Gendry stood from the bed, suddenly numb and exhausted. He did not look upon Arya’s face any longer, he figured he could not. He stood up at once, and stormed off. When Arya called out after him weakly, he ignored her. He walked out of her chambers in an eloquently and level-headed manner … _ like a proper lord _ , he thought. Now was the time that he decided he _ will _ become a proper lord, he figured it was all he really had now, even if he didn’t really want it.

He was going to be a proper lord now, and every proper lord had to have his lady, _ didn’t they? _

  



	3. Rose-scented Nightmares

Arya

The castle felt cold and hard. As the guards led Arya and Amiria into their own chambers, Arya had ran her fingers across the walls, almost as a way to properly feel the castle, to hear its heartbeat. The walls were moist, and the corridors were narrow. Storm’s End had nothing to hide from Arya it seemed; the castle was everything but meek. Amiria held Arya close in her fragile state. Arya had collapsed right when they made it into the castle. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the time she collapsed in Winterfell. This time, she was only out for a brief moment. Still, Amiria and the Northmen demanded that the maester see Arya immediately, despite the late hour of the night. None argued against it. 

…

Maester Jurne was a rock of an old man, Arya thought. His hands never shook as Maester Luwin’s so often had. Although his wrinkles and chains said one thing about his age, his posture, steadiness, and full-set of black gray-ish hair said another. 

When the maester first arrived into her chambers, Arya had been so disoriented that the only thing she was able to make out in her new living space was the large featherbed, the hard wooden wardrobe with the carvings of a stag, and the burning fireplace. After Maester Jurne inspected her, he had put a strong heavy hand on her forehead, then on her cheek, then on her stomach. Arya shuddered. At first sight she thought the maester hard and harsh, but the more she looked, the more she began to believe there might have been something else underneath. Something gentle. 

“I can’t feel any movement,” the maester informed her, and as soon as he did, Amiria who sat on a chair to her left, squealed. Arya felt her heart fall to her stomach. “Do not fear, princess ...” the man turned to Arya after he read her expression, “‘Tis normal. Some women have reported not having felt movement for weeks before birth, and alas they welcomed healthy sons and daughters into the world.” 

“_ Some _women …” Arya responded suddenly so afraid. A moon ago, the idea of having a child upset her, had incredibly disappointed her. She could not understand ... she should have been happy. Perhaps, it was the thought of her having come all this way for nothing that was truly upsetting. Arya did not know.

“What is your age?” The maester asked suddenly, his tone lower and softer. 

“Eight-and-ten,” Arya said. “Almost nine-and-ten …” 

“I would not worry about it, princess. If you had been younger, even older, I fear I would be telling you otherwise.” 

Arya cringed at the maester calling her _princess_ again, the Northerners never called her princess. She had almost forgotten she was supposed to be one. 

Arya heard Amiria’s obnoxious sigh of relief, but unlike Amiria, the man’s words did nothing for her. Although the maester’s words should have reassured her, they hadn’t, not at all. She placed her hand on her own belly and nodded at the maester. Her eyes suddenly felt uncomfortably moist. 

“You need rest,” the maester said while motioning to the small bottle of dreamwine on the table, “a lot of it.” The Maester stood up from his chair beside Arya and with a light bow turned to leave, but not before he looked at Arya’s large gray eyes and said, “The mind is a powerful thing. Try to use it in a way that aids you and your health.” With that, the maester started to walk off. He was tall, Arya thought, and probably very strong in his earlier life. He reminded her of Gendry in a strange way. When the old man made it to the door, Arya heard herself speak suddenly. 

“I can never sleep very long,” she said, “not even with dreamwine. Not even with two drops of nightshade. I have dreams. Bad ones. And I fear. I fear like a craven.”

The maester planted his hand on the door, “there were times when I hadn’t feared anything,” he said, “those times were perhaps the worst I’ve ever lived.” The maester opened the wide door with the sound of a ghostly creak. “Please, princess, do everything in your power to rest well.” 

Arya saw the man slip into the darkness of the corridors, and a second later heard the hard ‘clack’ of the heavy doors closing. Amiria stood quickly removing her cloak, gently setting it aside on her chair. She moved towards the table where the bottles of milk of the poppy and the dreamwine had been. Amiria looked almost as tired as Arya felt. Her braid was partially unmade and the strands of her long hair were sticking out from all sides. 

Amiria’s skinny fingers opened the bottle, and before she began to pour the liquid into a goblet, Arya called out to her in opposition. “No, Amiria. There’s no need for that.”

“But my lady-” 

“-It makes me feel ill” Arya said, “I’d like to try on my own.” Amiria nodded and quickly went to blow out some of the candles that had been hanging on the dark brown walls. The girl left the fire burning for a chill had been seeping into the room from the cracks. Arya slipped into the bed while she pulled up the Baratheon-yellow linen sheets. As she laid there, she finally noticed the canopy overhead. Just like the wardrobe, the canopy had the carvings of a stag, just like the stags from the Baratheon banners. 

Arya closed her eyes. It had taken hours for sleep to reach her. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how hard she shut her eyes. She laid her fingers on her stomach, and while she tried to sleep anticipated feeling any movement against her fingertips. But alas, she did not. 

She felt sleep consume her suddenly, but even then it had felt so half-hearted. The light from the early morning sun had already been creeping into the tall glass windows. Sleep had only consumed her for a brief moment. 

Arya had dreamt of Nymeria. It had not been a wolf dream though. She dreamt that Nymeria birthed a child in a field of green grass, and flowers, with sunshine beating down on her fur. Her Wolfpack had stared down at her while she howled in pain. It had not been a wolf pup that had come out of Nymeria, but a human child. It was a dark-haired baby, full of blood, limp and lifeless upon the dewy green grass. 

With the clashing sound of thunder, Arya had awoken at once. She felt eyes planted on her, but when she looked to her left, she saw Amiria was gone. When she looked to her right, she found that she was right. Gendry’s piercing blue eyes met with hers. Her heart raced at once, but she still felt no kicking against her fingertips. She felt sad. She would have done anything for comfort from the man before her, but she did not want to give him or her false hope, not again. 

“My lady ...” 

“My lord.” 

  


Gendry 

Gendry had not seen Arya for days after their first encounter at Storm’s End. Five, to be exact. But her presence was still very known and apparent in the castle somehow. It was like everyone got to know Arya in the matter of these five days, the people of the castle mostly. He had always known Arya to make friends, but not in her current state, not with the state of her health. 

Although, the days had been excruciatingly long days to bear, he still managed on. He trained, he worked on his lessons, worked on a longsword in the forge, trained with his hammer. _Lords have loads to do besides chase ladies who do not care for them_, Gendry thought. Still Gendry found it hard to keep her out of his thoughts, and sometimes to even keep her name out of his mouth. 

...

  


During his lessons, the day after he had met with Arya, he had interrupted Maester Jurne’s readings, that was something that the maester despised — getting interrupted, but Gendry found that he could not hold his tongue. 

“-pardon me, maester, but… I’d like to know about Arya’s health. I heard she fell ill when she arrived.” 

Maester Jurne stared at a page from his old large book for a moment. Gendry could tell he had annoyed the maester by the old man’s manner. The maester looked stiff and the look in his eye was cold. 

After slight hesitation the maester finally spoke, without taking his eyes away from the page he had been reading. “She is in dire need of rest, my lord. Her physical health suffers because her mental health suffers.” 

“Well, what can she do then?” Gendry had asked. 

“Heal. Sleep.” Maester Jurne had said bluntly as he marked his spot on the page and averted his attention to Gendry.

Gendry had stopped for a second and thought. “When my … _bastard_ is born, will people know she’s Arya’s? Will the Conningtons feel offended?” 

“Secrets always have a way of coming out in the end, I’m afraid. But my lord, you forget who you are — the last Baratheon, the last son of a past king. Bastard or no bastard, House Connington would not be wise to reject you, or work against you, because you bore a bastard. Your father himself had many.”

“I was one of his bastards,” Gendry had said. “And now I’m a lord...” 

“Yes, and now you’re the Great lord of a great house. Being cautious of House Connington is smart, but fearing them by devaluing your power, and strength … now that is foolish.” Maester Jurne’s eyes darted back down to where his finger was on the page, “Let us continue.” 

Gendry had spent two days, after that occurrence with the Maester, without spitting her name out like some pathetic smitten green boy. Gendry had been walking the halls of the castle with Ser Davos. They had both been on their way to break their fasts. It had been a bright morning, brighter than Gendry had ever seen in Storm’s End. 

“Have you met with Arya yet?” Gendry had asked curiously. 

“I have. As have the kitchen wenches, the watchmen, the Conningtons-” 

“-Already?” Gendry snapped. “Shouldn’t she be getting rest?” Arya had not met with Gendry since the first time they had seen one another in Storm’s End, and even then, Gendry had gone to her, not the other way around. 

“Perhaps. But there’s only so much one can sleep. And she’s a guest with little to do. She’s not well enough to train-”

“-but she’s well enough to go off and make little friends.” Gendry snapped again. A second later Gendry had caught Ser Davos smile after Gendry’s retort. Gendry felt annoyed with the prospect of Ser Davos sensing his jealousy. The thought had embarrassed him. As they walked Gendry had decided to defensively retaliate. “Ronnet and his men are to leave tomorrow. Alynne is to stay behind. I am to possibly marry her after the birth of my … _bastard_.” 

Ser Davos looked surprised but attempted not to show it. He walked stiffly beside his lord. His clothes had always looked grubby. Gendry thought the man spoke and walked like a commoner as well, and that comforted Gendry. He hadn’t looked like a knight either, didn’t wear armor, or have an aggressive side to him that would aid him in battles. 

“A betrothal, my lord?” Ser Davos had asked. 

“Of course not,” Gendry had said without thinking. 

Gendry’s meeting with Ronnet Connington and his men had happened in Storm’s End’s cramped council chambers. It had been a small damp room, half-way filled with benches. It was windowless, and that made it feel smaller than it had been. Candles had always been burning in the chambers, otherwise no one would have been able to make out anything in its pure darkness.

Gendry had not agreed to a betrothal, he knew that was stupid, eventhough he was sure that’s what the Conningtons had truly wanted. He had insisted that it would be a sign of disrespect to the princess and House Stark, if he had. Gendry had persisted that his allegiance with The North was too important to taint. Ronnet had not liked Gendry’s answer, and liked the news of Gendry’s potential bastard far less. Still, he had accepted. Ronnet had been in no position to object Gendry’s offer, and thanks to Maester Jurne, Gendry had known that. That’s when Ronnet had strongly suggested for his sister to stay as a guest, until the princess was to leave.

“I think you two ought to get to know one another. Properly.” Ronnet had said bluntly. Gendry had nodded in agreement as he reached for Ronnet’s hand. They had concluded the meeting with a very firm handshake.

“Well, my lord, I hope she can make you very happy, if that’s what you choose. And for her to be a good and loving mother to all your future sons and daughters,” Ser Davos said.

Ser Davos said this to Gendry with nothing but sincerity and gentleness, but something about it deeply offended Gendry. He didn’t know if it had been the implication that Alynne would mother all his children, or the implication that they’d have many future children together. But what had really offended him, he knew, had been the lack of Arya in this predicted wretched future. He had felt so stupid. He wanted not to care, he wanted Alynne’s beauty to excite him, he wanted his lordship to excite him. He wanted to be a good befitting lord who could do _some_ good, but every time he’d think of the she-wolf he’d become too hollow to truly care about any of it. 

Ser Davos had changed the subject as they reached the hall, “_Mmm_… is that bacon?” Gendry’s stomach growled as the smell of the food reached his nostrils as well. Ser Davos walked into the hall, eager to break his fast, and Gendry followed. 

  


…

  


It had been six days since he had seen her, but there she was. Usually his men had brought her supper to her chambers, but she never came to the halls. He saw her as soon as she appeared, with Amiria just two steps behind. She wore a dark gray cloak and a short gray dress that looked as if it had been torn at the bottom. She had her usual brown breeches below it, and brown boots. Her belt was fashioned under her stomach, which just accentuated her inflated stomach. Her Valyrian-steel dagger and needle were in their scabbards on her sides. 

Gendry was sitting in the lord’s table with Alynne. She looked alright too. Her hair was fashioned down and simple, like Arya’s had been. She wore a simple red silk dress with a griffin fashioned on the collar, and an ivory cloak. When she removed her white gloves, Gendry noticed that her hands were slim, long, and elegant. Alynne spotted him looking at her hands, and looked right at him. She smiled at him sweetly and squeezed his hand before averting her attention towards her supper.

Supper was black bread, with turnips, and capon. Gendry ate quietly as he watched Arya out of the corner of his eye. She sat with the smallfolk and Gendry recalled the majority of the people in her vicinity saying hello to her, and bowing, and calling her _princess._ She did not like that, Gendry could tell, but she didn’t let it show much. As she sat down to eat, Gendry suddenly spotted Arya looking around behind her, scanning the hall. He faced down towards his food abruptly, and began picking at his turnips before she caught him staring at her. 

“Do you miss King’s Landing?” Alynne asked him suddenly. She was trying to break the silence between them, as the chatter from the smallfolk rung in the background. It took Gendry a second to realize how stupid that question was. He had already, more or less, told her about the things the people of Flea Bottom had to endure. 

“No.” Gendry said dully as he bit into a piece of capon. He could see the smallfolk’s mouths moving in the bench below him, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Arya slightly nodded at one of the men who was talking at her. It looked as if he was telling her a story. Gendry did not remember the man’s name, but he remembered his face. He was small and feeble-looking, and although young, had been balding. Not so far from Arya sat Elwood as well. _Strange_, Gendry thought. Lord Elwood Meadows had never shown any interest in the commoners before. Elwood looked at the feeble man as well, listening to whatever it was that he was saying. 

“What about Winterfell?” Alynne asked suddenly catching Gendry’s attention.

“‘What _about_ Winterfell?”

“Do you miss it, my lord? You’ve spent _some_ time there.” 

“Too cold,” Gendry responded while Alynne’s smalltalk began to bore him once more. She was better to look at than she was to talk to. 

“I’ve been to many of the kingdoms, but no matter how beautiful, I always end up missing the Stormlands. I find I seldom sleep without the sound of rain showers.” 

Arya nodded at the feeble man and he bowed ever so slightly before digging into his half-eaten plate of food. Gendry then watched as Arya slid her own turnips into the man’s plate. Then it was the person sitting across from her, that had caught her attention. A man with messy curly brown hair, and green eyes. His name was Gregor. Gendry remembered him during his first night in Storm’s End. He had been a funny lad. And Arya had thought so too apparently. Arya was smiling almost embarrassed, she hid her face with her hand so no one could see her brief joy. Her smile made him smile. 

“What’s so funny, my lord?” Alynne asked cluelessly, a gentle smile on her face. 

“Nothing,” Gendry answered before shoving a large chunk of black bread into his mouth. 

Laughter erupted from the bench at once, and he saw many of the smallfolk laughing at something Gregor had said, Amiria Snow put a hand over her mouth probably afraid of seeming rude to the men. The feeble man had been laughing too, and Elwood. And Arya again. That time, she hadn’t hidden her face behind her hands. 

Then it happened, Arya turned her face quickly and their eyes met. Gendry kept his stare. He decided instantly that he could not break her stare, it was like he was under a spell of some sorts. Gendry thought she would look away at once, but the opposite happened. Arya looked longingly at Gendry, her eyes starry and gleaming. She tilted her head and smiled slightly, there was a hint of sadness in the gesture. Although he did not smile back, he felt flutters in his stomach. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore. 

And then Arya’s head tilted again, but it was in a different manner, almost as if her head had become too heavy for her neck. She turned her attention back to the table with an odd jolt. She turned her back to Gendry. Arya stared down at her lap and brought her hands to her face and chest suddenly. Gendry watched closely as Amiria’s hand gripped on Arya’s back. It looked as if Amiria was whispering something to her. Gregor, Elwood, the feeble man and the other smallfolk were all looking at Arya as he had. 

Suddenly, he saw Arya collapse on Amiria like some weightless doll. Amiria caught her before she could fall off the bench. Gendry stood at once, his chair screeching loudly as it dragged harshly against the floors. The attention of the hall went from Arya to him. Alynne stood up after him. Gendry pushed his chair back and made his way down towards Arya. He could feel the eyes on him as he walked down to the bench. He heard a gentle song of the smallfolk saying, “m’lord,” as he made it to the middle of the bench where a half-conscious Arya leaned on her friend. 

Gendry grabbed Arya’s arm and put it over his shoulder before pulling her out of the bench in one motion. 

“The princess needs to rest.” Gendry said strictly. “Please continue your suppers.” 

Everyone stared at Gendry, at Arya’s nearly-unconscious body. Her eyes were opened slightly. It was as if she did not have enough in her to open them, but at the same time refused to let herself completely go under. Amiria stood and helped Gendry hold her by placing Arya’s free arm around her small shoulders, and wrapping her arms around Arya’s side. Like this, they began to walk towards Arya’s chambers.

Alynne walked briskly behind them, Gendry noticed, but he kept walking. He did not know why she was following them. “She needs the maester,” Alynne called out at once, worried and a bit panicked. 

“The maester said she needs to rest. Please, go and finish your supper, my lady.” 

Alynne nodded, her hands tightly folded against her breasts. “I pray she’s better on the morrow.” Alynne gracefully but unenthusiastically walked away. Gendry caught her looking back at them, sadness on her face. He didn’t know who that sadness was for, but he was sure it wasn’t for Arya. 

Arya and Gendry 

Half-way from Arya’s chambers, Gendry thought it easier to just carry her. Amiria’s skinny little body couldn’t handle half-lifting Arya, although Gendry recalled doing most of the work anyway.

As Gendry held her, in her haze, she wrapped her hands around his neck weakly. He had never held her before. Gendry’s arms around her made her feel even more light, more dizzy, and more disoriented than she had already been. 

Once they made it to her chambers, Gendry gently laid Arya on the bed, on top of her linens. He noticed that her cheeks were flushed, and her expression looked weak. Amiria passed past Gendry to Arya. She started to take Arya’s boots off, and unlacing her belt, even though Gendry could hear Arya mumbling in opposition. Amiria had done it anyway. When Amiria’s fingers found Arya’s cloak, Arya grabbed her hand powerlessly and pushed it aside. Arya’s attempt at taking off her own cloak had been pathetic, Gendry thought, but she had done it … eventually.

Arya took her cloak from her bed, and weakly pushed it onto the floor, dragging her hands. She then went on her side and began to pull the sheets up to her cold body. She could feel Amiria and Gendry staring back at her. She felt embarrassed about earlier, about fainting in front of everyone, in front of Gendry. And she felt sad about the lack of movement in her stomach. It had been days, and Arya was almost sure the baby was dead, despite what Maester Jurne had said. She tried to suppress it, to ignore it, to explore the castle and talk to people, engage with people, but nothing worked. It was deeply engraved in her mind, in her chest; it was haunting her.

“Leave me be,” Arya told Amiria and Gendry as she bit her bottom lip hard, “_both_ of you.” 

Amiria and Gendry looked at one another unsure if they should really leave her by her lonesome self. Gendry decided, almost instantly, that he wasn’t. Amiria on the other hand, probably afraid of upsetting Arya any more than she already was, decided to leave. “Sleep well,” Amiria told Arya with a kiss on her cheek and a squeeze of her arm. She turned to Gendry, “my lord,” she curtsied and grabbed the candle from Arya’s table, lit it, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. 

“I said _ both _ of you,” Arya said bluntly in a low unenergetic tone. 

“Is that any way to speak to a lord? A high-lord!” Gendry said it in a deep and haughty voice, and Arya knew right away that he was teasing her.

Arya turned to look at Gendry, and saw that he was smiling smugly. She gave him a look, and turned on her back again. Her eyes looked so fierce, so wild, Gendry thought, yet there was something else there … a fragileness. He would not dare tell her he thought her fragile, but he believed something inside of her was. Her cold facade had only been a facade. She was a wolf, yes, but she was also a human girl. 

“Are you promised to her?” Arya asked suddenly. She needed to know, she didn’t know why, she just knew that she did. She played with her linens as she eagerly waited for his response.

“No, I’m not.” Gendry responded stiffly. He saw Arya’s eyes light up just slightly. He suddenly became hot. He undid his cloak and threw it on the table nearest to him. 

“No?” Arya asked again. “Doesn’t seem that way,” Arya mumbled, barely audible. 

“Ronnet wanted her to stay.” Gendry confirmed as he quickly began to scan the room.

Arya stared at him. She thought he looked so handsome, it made her feel so stupid swooning over High-lords, like something Sansa might’ve done when she was a girl. Gendry had a black leather jerkin with a metal stag brooch pinned on his right side, where his heart would’ve been. His hair was straight, shaggy, and black. His dark beard had began to grow in nicely, and his eyes were a shocking blue, more blue than her mother’s eyes, or Sansa’s eyes, or Robb’s. The look of him sent down a tremble in between her thighs. Then her whole body shivered, and she pulled the linen up over her arms shamefully.

“You two would make a handsome couple. You’re both so comely.” Arya said sluggishly. And she regretted saying it right after she said it. She did not know what she regretted more, calling Gendry handsome to his face or upsetting him as much as she did.

Gendry’s face instantly turned to a frown. He felt that anger again. His anger started to boil up the blood inside of him. He did not want to be angry again, he just wanted to talk to her. He did not want to go another six days without speaking to her, but it had been so hard for him to control his anger, perhaps he had gotten that from his pig-father. 

“I don’t remember asking for your position on the matter.” Gendry retorted as calmly as his anger would allow him. “It doesn’t concern you, does it?”

“Well, I’ve said it so-”

“-Well, don’t.” 

“I-”

“-be quiet.” 

“I can say what I want!” Arya snapped back. 

“That’s all you do — bloody talk and stick your nose into other people’s business. It’s how you’ve always been. I wish you’d shut up for once.” 

“I wish you’d shut up!” Arya retorted, feeling a little bit defeated. She felt her blood begin to boil as well. She sat up abruptly looking hard at Gendry, as he looked hard at her. She conjured her energy though her frustration. And at once she came to the realization that that was a bad idea. At once her head became incredibly light. She held her head as a way to steady it, the room began to spin at once.

“Arya,” Gendry said at once while he crouched down to her level, grabbing her arms to steady her. Arya closed her eyes as one of Gendry’s hands went to the small of her back and he carefully lowered her back onto the bed. She shivered again. 

“You should rest,” Gendry said strictly. “You need. To rest.” 

“I've bloody tried.” Arya told him, deep hopelessness in her eyes. 

Gendry grabbed her hand, almost unsure at first. He felt her cold hands against his rough ones. When she tightened her grip onto his, he looked into her eyes. “I have dreams too. The bad ones. But you don’t need to be afraid. They’re just dreams, Arya. Nothing bad’s going to happen to you here.”

Arya was going to say that something bad had already happened to her here, and that he couldn’t do anything about it. Death followed her everywhere she went, and now it had come for the life inside of her. Gendry wasn’t a god, only a man. His promises had been nothing but well-intentioned hopes and nothing more. But that had only been before she felt the first kick. 

“Gendry,” she said aloud. The excitement in her voice surprised him, made him jump. Watching her tear away the yellow linens off her body, lift her dress, and expose her stomach, surprised him even more. 

Arya took control of Gendry’s hand and laid it flat upon her bare stomach. Gendry’s insides fluttered, and he could feel his face become hot again. He hadn’t felt anything at first. He looked at Arya confused, she was looking down at her belly where Gendry’s hand laid. Her hair was messier than usual, and her vulnerability made her look more beautiful than ever. Her lips were red, small and swollen, he licked his lips at the thought of kissing her. The bulge in his pants creeped up on him. Gendry kneeled to mask it.

That’s when Gendry finally felt it. It felt like someone had been inside her stomach delivering blows to her with tiny fists. Arya groaned in discomfort, but Gendry also noticed that there was a smile on her face. He smiled too. 

“She likes you,” Arya said brightly but wearily. She felt her eyes well up with tears but the smile never left her face.

“She?” Gendry asked astonished.

“It’s … always a girl ... in my dreams,” Arya said. 

“Strange …” Gendry said, “In mine too.” There was a sadness in his tone, Arya could tell. 

Arya pulled her dress down and proceeded to move to the side of her bed. She looked deep into Gendry’s eyes in concentration. He looked back at her feeling his hunger and his hollowness, all at once. He wanted nothing more than to fill her inside of him. Gendry pulled off his boots, unlaced his jerkin, and dropped the clothing on the floor. He laid atop of the featherbed, on the side she left open and bare for him. He laid on his side, eye-to-eye with the wolf-girl. 

He placed his strong hand on her cheek, rubbing it with his thumb before he leaned in and kissed her on the lips, harshly and passionately. They had never kissed like this, Arya recalled. With each kiss she felt hungrier and hungrier. Their tongues clashed in each other’s mouths. Arya whimpered into his mouth as they kissed, feeling a different kind of dizziness

Gendry had not felt anything so sweet in so long, he felt like he was drunk. 

But Arya did not let it go farther than that. She pulled away softly, licking her lips in the process, tasting his taste. It had been excruciating for her to stop, but she knew she had to. She knew she couldn’t keep doing this to him, to herself. She placed a hand on his lips and whispered, “I should rest.” 

Gendry pulled back slowly, and looked upon Arya’s face. She was never going to love him properly, he had accepted that, but maybe those nice little-moments could keep him from feeling so devastatingly famished. The thought made him sad, he wanted more, a lot more. He wanted her whole. He sat up to leave, but as soon as he did, Arya grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back down in a measly attempt.

Gendry laid back down beside her, obediently. She laid her head on his chest awkwardly, almost like she was deciding whether or not she should. Then she bravely placed her arm around his stomach. Gendry disturbed her position, just for a second, to grab at the linen and pull it over their bodies. Arya resumed her position right after. A drowsiness filled her body, a sweet heavy drowsiness that had something to do with the masculine smell of him. 

Gendry placed his arm around her, and laid his head back on the bed. He took a whiff of her hair in the process. _ There it was again _ , he thought, _ the hint of a sweet cold rose _. Before Gendry could feel himself being consumed by sleep, he felt her sleepy breath coming from her back. She peacefully breathed slowly, in and out, and in and out. His eyes finally became too heavy to keep open. With Arya there, beside him to protect him from his nightmares, he vulnerably welcomed sleep with open arms. 


	4. Failed Seductions and Revelations

Gendry

It had been a moon ago since Arya had been sharing his bed. All they had done is sleep in the same bed, for a moon, nothing more. It had been excruciating for Gendry not to kiss her, touch her, and make love to her. He wanted to make love to her, almost desperately. He dreamt of the night they had spent in the storage room, thought of her sweet lips, of her pure, taut, naked body. The days having watched her sleep in her smallclothes had been torture. Her swollen belly, in Gendry’s eyes, only made her more fascinating to him, and each day, it had grown larger. Still Gendry felt grateful for their intimate, yet innocent, nights. He had been grateful to have her fall asleep in his arms, grateful that she had been properly resting, and grateful that her health had improved greatly. 

Maester Jurne called the past month, “prosperous.” Gendry had been spending a lot of time with the castellan of Storm’s End: Ser Gilbert Farring. Ser Gilbert was a bear of a man, big, husky, mean-faced, and always heavily armored. He had a mess of brown hair and scars that scattered all over his face. The man was serious, but loyal, although when crossed, Gendry had heard the man could be cold and despicably unforgiving. 

Ser Gilbert taught Gendry what his duties ought to be if Gendry had chosen to lead the castle himself. He taught Gendry of his military, how many men had been fighting for House Baratheon, who his bannermen were. He taught him of the castle’s garrisons, where his soldiers would be stationed, and what they would protect. Gendry was told about the castle’s staff and how to manage them: the cooks, the stewards, the serving girls, the stable men, chambermaids, the men-at-arms, the squires, the knights. The man told Gendry that the future lady of Storm’s End would be in charge of that. _The Lady of Storm’s End_, Gendry thought, and his thoughts lead him straight to Arya. Arya had nearly known all of the staff’s names already, Gendry recalled. Gendry knew at least half, and a lot of that was thanks to Arya and their innocent nights which had commonly resulted in little informative conversations between the two. 

Gendry noticed that Arya was almost back to her strong, energetic self. She had been joining him in the courtyard while he trained. Gendry preferred that she took it easy, but he quickly realized that he could not keep Arya from doing the things she wanted to do. He decided he ought to enjoy their time together at the courtyard; they had been separate but together. Gendry practiced with his hammer and Arya practiced mostly with Needle, but sometimes with her bow.

Arya’s skin looked almost radiant and felt softer than usual, Gendry recalled. Her hair looked lush and wild. And now, it was obvious to every soul that laid eyes on her, that she was with child. Some of the folk of the castle had been giving her dirty, disgusted looks. Some even mumbled obscenities to themselves. Gendry had heard the word, “dishonorable,” directed towards Arya more times than he would have liked to hear. The looks, and the stupid little words filled him with fury. _If she is dishonorable, than so am I, and ten times over,_ Gendry thought. 

Gendry watched her as she swung around Needle. Arya often wore a gray tunic, brown breeches, and boots to the training grounds. She held a bow on her back, and her Valyrian steel dagger on her belt. He watched as the men around the courtyard looked at her oddly and advised her not to play around with swords and weapons in her condition. Arya only smiled at them and continued. Elwood, the master-at-arms had been the first to advice Arya against such things.

“A princess should really not play with weapons,” Elwood had told her while he watched her water-dancing. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” Gendry watched them from afar, he sat on a stack of hay, drinking water from his skins. The day was dull and gray, but it had not rained, and by the look of the clouds, Gendry predicted that it probably wouldn’t.

“I bet I won’t,” Arya retorted while she continued her funny little dance. She wasn’t as quick on her feet as she was in the past, Gendry observed. 

“Women should sing songs, dance, write poetry … bare children. It’s just what the Gods intended, if they hadn’t, they would not have made women so fair and weak,” Elwood said as he fiddled with his scabbard. Gendry thought that Arya would get angry, that she would whack him and tell him to shut his mouth, but she didn’t do anything but her little dance. Gendry hoped she would whack him. It seemed that, as of lately, Elwood had always been in Arya’s close proximity. The thought of the way his eyes feasted upon her had always turned Gendry’s blood hot.

“What about Visenya Targaryen? Or Nymeria of the Rhoyne?” Arya asked out-of-breath. Gendry learned of Nymeria through Arya, but Visenya, Rhaenys, and Aegon, he had learned about with Maester Jurne through his lessons. And of course, the smallfolk had often spoken of Aegon’s Conquest, but the whispers had been scattered and altered. Aegon’s Conquest was a different story when he heard it from the mouths of commoners. 

“Those women were otherworldly, princess.” Elwood said gently, a hint of a smile was creeping onto his face as he kicked his wooden sword around. Gendry had never seen the man smile before. Elwood was a quiet man, he never tried to hold conversations with Gendry, never asked Gendry about his prior life, or about anything really. His interest to Arya surprised Gendry, as did the sudden voice Elwood seemed to materialize almost overnight. 

“I have known many women with the strength of a hundred men.” 

“Impossible.”

“What’s strength to you?” Arya had asked as she pointed needle to his face, her face hard. 

“I dunno. How easily a man could cut another man in half with a swing of his sword.” Elwood answered, a smile was still been present on his stupid face. Gendry wished he could smack that smile right off his face. 

Arya giggled, and the gesture made Gendry smile. The embarrassed look on Elwood’s face made him smile even wider. 

“Then I suppose that means Ser Gregor Clegane was the strongest man who ever lived.” 

“Well-yes … at least _one_ of them.” The man replied and Arya stopped and giggled again, she seemed a little uncomfortable. She shook her head in opposition. 

She sheathed the skinny sword back into its scabbard. “No,” she said. “He wasn’t.” She dismissed Elwood with a sharp look, and said “Lord Meadows,” with a slight curtsy. 

“Princess,” the man answered as Gendry furrowed his brow. 

Gendry watched Elwood watch Arya walk away, Elwood smiled to himself before returning back to the station where the practice-swords had been. The man dropped his wooden sword in its place, and cracked his sore knuckles. 

When Arya reached Gendry, a sweat was trickling down from her forehead to her cheek. Gendry resisted the temptation to wipe it off her. He knew she would not have liked it, and Maester Jurne had advised Gendry not to, “parade around Arya Stark,” not without the intention of marrying her. “Dishonorable,” the maester called it. Gendry did not find anything about it dishonorable, so he did not take the maester’s advice. He was with Arya at every given opportunity, whenever his lordly duties weren’t sucking the life out of him. 

“He’s a bit of a cunt, that one.” Gendry said as he stood and began to walk beside Arya. It had nearly been time for supper. Gendry’s stomach was rumbling. 

“I’ve met many worse,” Arya answered. 

“Well yeah, but-”

“-it’s not his fault. It’s just what he knows. At least he lets me practice.”

Gendry scoffed. He was consumed with a sudden irritation. He didn’t say another word as they made their way back inside the castle. Gendry gripped onto his warhammer fiercely, as he and Arya silently made their way into the dark corridors. The night was almost upon them.

Gendry wanted nothing more than to retire to his chambers and rest with his she-wolf but alas his duties had gotten in the way, had gotten in the way while he tried to reach her. Gendry was ill, he thought, obsessively and completely ill with love. He hated the thought, he wanted none of it, truly. None of that poisonous love. If the Gods had given him the opportunity to take the lovesickness away, he would let them, with open hands, he’d let them. 

They diverged into separate hallways, Gendry went right to his own chambers, and Arya went left. As they walked their separate ways in silence, Gendry looked back at the girl as he walked. A second later, their eyes met, blue clashed with gray. Arya smiled delicately, but Gendry only looked harshly, coldly thinking of Arya’s overt friendliness with his master-at-arms. He turned sharply and walked back to his chambers. He was to ready himself for a nice supper of potato and meat stew.

  
  


… 

  
  


Gendry spent his morning and afternoon managing his garrisons with the supervision of Ser Gilbert Farring. Gendry thought if he was going to be watched over, he might as well just have had the castellan do it all by himself. Gendry had already grown tired of managing, commanding, and sitting in a library. He wondered if he had been suited for this kind of thing. He wanted to see Storm’s End’s beach, but it seemed as if there was no time for anything. For that reason, he treasured mealtimes, training, and laying in bed with the wolf-girl. 

The thought came to Gendry wholeheartedly a week later, before he was to break his fast. Ser Davos had been walking with him. Gendry had wanted to leave, to leave it all behind. He was almost sure that Arya would have wanted him if he gave it all away and left with her, they’d go wherever she wanted, with their _bastard_ by their side. He wasn’t some random peasant anymore, he had king’s blood, he hoped that was enough for her. 

“Ser Davos.” Gendry called to the gentle man suddenly, “I fear I may not want this.” 

“_This_, my lord?” Ser Davos had asked as he began to walk at a slower pace, his hands had been behind his back. He had put his attention towards Gendry.

“My lordship.” Gendry had stated bluntly as he tugged on his black cloak. 

“Why not, my lord?” Ser Davos asked, concern had been clear in his features. 

“I don’t deserve it, and I don’t care for it. If my mother hadn’t laid with that drunken fool, I would be no different from anyone else-I’m no different from anyone else.” 

“If your mother hadn’t laid with that … drunken fool, you would’ve never been born.”

“I wasn’t born for this, Ser Davos. I’m just a smith’s apprentice from Flea Bottom. My mum didn’t want me, my father didn’t want me. Why should the Stormlanders want me? Why should _anyone_ want me as their lord?”

“Because, my lord, you understand your people.”

“Do I?”

“Of course, you _were_ them. As was I.” Ser Davos had stopped and looked at Gendry and Gendry had stopped as well. He planted a hand on Gendry’s shoulder. “You’ve got the chance to help the little people of the south,” Ser Davos said softly. “The ones that don’t stand a chance among the high-borns. Among the lords, ladies, and their games of power. _You_ can do that for them, my lord, you can. If a man like you was king, the Crownlands might have been a much happier place. Flea Bottom might have not have been called Flea Bottom.” 

Ser Davos chuckled lightly then smiled warmly at Gendry. The older man began towards the hall again, his smile had been the type of smile that Gendry always associated with fathers, the type of smile that Lord Eddard Stark had given him once, even though Gendry had refused to sell him his bullhead’s helmet. Gendry wanted to be a good father, he thought suddenly, and perhaps not just to his own kin, but to the people who hadn’t had a father, the people like him. He wondered if being a lord was the only way he could help people, truly help them. 

Gendry had began to walk towards the hall once more, Ser Davos’ words making more and more sense with each step that he took forward. But unfortunately, he felt the she-wolf move farther and farther away from him as he walked. And that, he did not like, not at all. 

It wasn’t until he was in the hall that he had almost forgotten everything Ser Davos told him. Elwood was in the hall, with Arya. Again ... Of course … She had looked exceptionally special, in a short gray Stark dress that she wore over breeches. She had a black cloak on, much like Gendry’s. Her hair was in a single braid over her shoulder. Arya’s hand was on a little ragged black-haired girl’s shoulder and they watched Elwood as he flipped her dagger from one hand, and caught it with the other. Arya smiled in approval at him, and the little girl clapped.

Gendry felt his fury once more, suddenly felt the smell of hard-boiled eggs make him sick. When the picture of Elwood and Arya came to his mind, he cringed. He thought of them on horseback riding through the Stormlands together, leading a large group of jolly people through trees. He thought of Arya looking fierce and wild, the wind blowing through her hair, as the warm sun soaked into her skin. He thought of the she-wolf kissing his pretty master-at-arms in the mouth, as he held a hyperactive black-haired little girl on his back. 

Gendry felt Ser Davos’ eyes as Gendry made his way back to his chambers that morning. _What a lord, I’ll be_, Gendry thought. _A stubborn-lowborn-lovestruck-idiot with a jealous rage_. The little people deserved better. Arya deserved better. 

Arya

  
  


Arya tried not to feel anything about it. It was probably a misunderstanding, and even if it wasn’t, Gendry was allowed to do with his future lady what he pleased. Arya laid in bed, her hands folded over her belly. She had just finished having a bath, and her hair dripped on her bed and on her robes. The moist sheets felt uncomfortable on her neck and back. Arya stood at once, she felt her drowsiness pulling down her eyelids, but knew that if she tried to sleep without him, sleep would not come for long.

“What is it, Arya? Are you feeling alright?” Amiria was sitting on the end of Arya’s bed, she had slept in Arya’s chambers while Arya was off with Gendry. Arya’s room was bigger than Amiria’s, warmer, and the bed more comfortable — she knew Amiria preferred it, and she had no problem sharing with her friend. 

“I’m fine, Amiria.” Arya snapped. She just wanted to sleep. She told herself her being upset had nothing to do with Gendry and Alynne, for a moment she believed it. But then she thought of how beautiful Alynne had looked during supper, and how Gendry, for once, seemed to notice it. 

Supper was lamprey pie and buttered turnips. Arya found she could not finish her food and gave half of her pie to a small girl called Poppy, who had been the daughter of Isolde, a skinny yellow-haired woman who worked in a tavern as a serving girl. Arya gave her turnips to Elwood Meadows even though she had preferred to give them to Isolde. But Isolde had refused anything more from Arya when Arya had told her she would find her a place in the castle’s kitchens. _At least when Isolde got to the kitchens, her and Poppy would finally be eating plenty, _Arya thought. 

Alynne was in a red silk dress. Her sleeves were puffed around her shoulders and tight around her arms. The dress was fashioned with a large golden belt around her waist. Her red hair had been half in a braid around her head, and half had fallen down her shoulders in soft waves, to her breasts and stomach. Her cheeks looked scarlet against her pale skin. _There’s a lady_, Arya thought, _a beauty,_ something she could never be even if she tried. 

Arya sat at the table trying to listen to Rollard, the talkative stablemen that had spoken about the horrors of his former life in King’s Landing, the skin on his arms had been completely burned up, and had just begun to heal. Arya also tried to listen to Elwood as he spoke about the southern outlaws, and the new recruitment of the Brotherhood Without Banners that roamed The Reach. Any other day these conversations would spark deep interest inside of Arya. It was as if nothing was staying in her head. Everyone’s words were leaking out of her ears. Still she had smiled at Elwood, and gave her attention to Rollard. 

Not many moments later, she saw Gendry stand from his table, the talking had died down and everyone rose. Arya did not. As everyone stood around her, she felt small. Gendry had looked even more handsome than he had looked before, and next to Alynne, they had looked nearly perfect. Like the lovers from one of Sansa’s old books. His hair was getting shaggier by the day, and his beard had grown slightly more around his cheeks. He looked like a real man now, a  _ Baratheon _ if she ever saw one. 

As Gendry passed by her, their eyes met for only a second. They had been cold and mean. Arya could not understand, she did not know what she had done. Perhaps she misunderstood. She then watched as Gendry coldly looked over at Elwood the same way, before he walked off gripping the castle-forged sword around his hip. A second later the girl appeared behind him, walking ten paces behind him, but obviously going wherever he was going. Arya twisted her mouth. She tried to get rid of the frown threatening her face. She did not want anyone to see, but she found Elwood staring at her before she had time to put away her emotions. The people of the table sat back down, and the chatter resumed at once. 

“I heard she’s to be his lady,” Elwood had told her in a whisper that only she could hear. “Every lord needs a lady, princess, and you’re no lady.” The young man had been handsome too, but nowhere near as handsome as Gendry. She was sure Sansa would have disagreed with her there. Elwood had a full-set of bronze curls, olive skin, and piercing pale green eyes. He hadn’t been tall, but he had been pretty-looking, and a very skilled fighter. He always wore deep greens that made his eyes pop significantly. “You’re otherworldly.” 

Arya felt uncomfortable by the young man all of a sudden. “Do not call me princess,” Arya protested, a little too loudly. For once in her life, Arya had preferred to be referred to as a lady. She really wished people could call her Arya. _ I’m Arya _ , she thought,  _ Arya Stark _ . It’s like that hadn’t been enough for anyone. 

Arya felt sincere but pitying eyes stab her from bench. She knew everyone was looking at her. She shivered and cringed at the thought of these people having felt bad for her. She was a wolf, she did not need anyone’s pity. She didn’t know how they could feel her discomfort but they had. Perhaps she had been spending too much time with the smallfolk. “I’m going to see to some rest.” Arya called out to no one in particular. She stood, and began quickly towards her chambers. Amiria sprung up from the other side of the bench and followed. The chatter in the hall began to pick up again as she walked off, a roaring of thunder came right after. 

  
  


…

  
  


It had been hours since supper. Amiria had fallen asleep at the ends of Arya’s bed. She was curled up in a small ball. She was reading poetry before she went under. Arya did not know what the book was called, only that it was a small leather-bound book with no words in the front. Perhaps someone dear to her put the little book together and passed it on to her. 

The fire was burning but a chill still entered the room. It began to storm outside the castle walls. It was a storm that Arya had not yet witnessed since she arrived. The sound of the strong winds-whistling, thunder roaring, waves crashing and water hitting stone had been so raucous, they had almost seemed eerie. But Arya felt safe inside the walls of Storm’s End, she knew the castle was built for this type of storm, she knew the castle would protect her and it’s people. 

The flash of lightning entered the room through the glass windows. She wanted nothing more than to sleep with the sounds of the storm crashing behind her. Besides, her and Gendry were nothing more than just friends. He might have been the father of her child, but apart from that, they were nothing more than old friends. She had no right to be upset with him for walking off with the Connington girl, but still she did feel upset. She tried to push her jealousy aside, she tried pretending like she did not care. 

Arya stood from the bed, tied her gray robes, and lifted her hood. She was wearing a comfortable clean tunic, that seemed too large for her, and her breeches were unlaced, for unlaced had felt a lot nicer around her swollen belly. Arya wrapped Amiria in her yellow linens. She grabbed Amiria’s book and laid it on her table. Arya blew out nearly all of her candles, grabbed one that still burned, and placed it upon a brass candle-holder. Arya walked to the heavy door and pulled it open. She could hear the sounds of the Storm clashing with Amiria’s light snoring as she closed the door behind her. 

  
  


Arya and Gendry 

  
  


The knock came anyway, even though he was not expecting it. He laid awake the entire time. He was trying to read the ravens from The Reach, and from King’s Landing but Gendry could not make out the words, not with the exhaustion he was feeling. The room was bright enough to see words from scrolls, but still dim enough that he could not make out anything from the other side of his chambers. 

“Come in,” he said when Arya hadn’t entered on her own. It was odd.  _ Perhaps she thought Alynne was here _ , he thought nervously. The truth of it was that Alynne had left the room not long after she had entered, but she  _ had _ entered. 

Arya entered, almost shyly, Gendry observed. That wasn’t like her. She met her eyes with his and then quickly diverted them back to her candle. She laid it on his table. Arya could feel Gendry watch her as she closed the door, took off her robes and let them fall on the floor. 

Arya quickly climbed onto his bed, still feeling those icy eyes on her. He was sitting up on his bed shirtless, he looked half lost in thought, and half lost in her fresh presence. Arya laid down beside him with her back to him. She curled into a ball like the one Amiria had been in. Arya could feel Gendry accommodating himself on the bed beside her. She stared at the dark stone wall in front of her, and the high windows. Lightning had been entering in quick flashes.

With the flashes from the storm came the sudden flashes of a girl with red hair, and large breasts, kissing upon his face. Arya could see it, almost as clear as day. She could see Gendry grabbing Alynne’s face while he kissed her passionately, she could see his hands make their way down her back and to her arse. She could see Alynne’s tits pressed onto his strong chest as he aligned his cock to her perfect lavender-scented cunt. Arya felt her fists tighten. Suddenly she was sitting up and looking Gendry straight in the face. He was on his back. He looked at her surprised. The baby in her stomach must have felt her fury, because it had began to kick away vigorously.

“You were with her?” Arya did not know what possessed her all of a sudden.

Gendry looked back at her hard. She was wearing his tunic, he noticed. Her cheeks were red and her face was filled with rage. Her collarbones moved up and down, her breath was short. 

“You care?” He retorted, ignoring the question. 

“I don’t.” She lied.

“Then why ask?” 

“Tell me anyway,” Arya insisted. 

Gendry looked at her, he wore almost as much anger as she did. Her insistence made him angry. One second she cared, and another second she did not.

“No.” He said bluntly.

“No?” 

“No, I won’t tell you.” 

Arya stood from the bed at once, rage surging through her blood all of a sudden. In her mind she had gotten her answer, and it wasn’t the answer she wanted. She tried to repress the feeling, tried to tell herself she had no right to feel the way she did. 

Arya grabbed her robe from the floor, and made to leave at once. She did not bother to grab her candle, she was ready to roam the dark corridors blindly. She nearly made it to the door, but not before Gendry turned her, and grabbed her arms in a tight grip. Arya whimpered in surprise.

“Let go of me,” she protested as she attempted at wriggling free from his grip. It was no use, he was too strong for her. “I said, let me go!” She shouted at him fiercely. Her hands were in tight fists at her sides.

“Arya,” Gendry said calmly but there was a fury in his eyes too, his grip tightened, “What is it that you want?” Gendry asked. 

“Sleep.” Arya answered as she continued to wriggle out of his grip. She tried to kick him, but he deflected it before she could. 

“Sleep?” He repeated. She whimpered again at his firm hold on her arms, and he let go a second later. “Then sleep, my lady,” he said as he beckoned over to the bed. 

She shoved him before she turned quickly and reached for the door. She will not yield to Gendry, she would rather not sleep for ages than lay beside such a stupid, stubborn, treacherous bull. For a second she wished Gendry was never made a stupid lord, but she knew that wish was wrong, that it was selfish. He could be a great lord, and that’s what the people needed. They needed him, not some dishonest, egotistical, dishonorable man that takes and takes until all his people are barren and withered. 

She thought about leaving Storm’s End right then and there. She knew she would make it, she had done it before. She wondered if Amiria was up for it. They could be outlaws, and her child could be the hero of the outlaws. The child could be a great swordswoman, or a great archer, and leader. Perhaps she’d be softer and bookish like Sansa; she could be the gentle stag of the forests, bringing peace, harmony, and beauty wherever she went, while Arya could be the hardened-wolf who would protect goodness at all costs.

Gendry grabbed her arm again, slammed the door she had opened, and pinned her to the stone wall at once. The thought of never seeing him again escaped her mind when his blue eyes were upon hers. She felt herself relax suddenly. His face melted her anger, she only felt sadness now. She felt her fingers release her robe. 

“Gendry,” she whispered, full of sorrow. Her eyes were glassy and melancholy when they looked up at him, she felt so alone at the thought of his future absence. 

“She kissed me,” Gendry confessed quickly. Arya threw him a face of disbelief. Gendry gulped harshly, and stared still at Arya, his eyes looked around her but not directly at her. He could feel Arya’s eyes, her patience running low, frustration returning to her. 

“And she … well she … grabbed my cock.” 

Arya squirmed from his grip, but his grip only tightened. She felt sick, she didn’t want to hear any more of it, she couldn’t handle it. She shouldn’t have asked. She felt the lump inside her throat again and knew that she was on the verge of tears. She tensed, and did everything in her power to stifle her lingering anguish. 

Gendry grabbed her face. “Nothing else happened,” he confirmed. Gendry studied her face, he felt ill with guilt. Her eyes were wet, red, and full of despair. Her lips were pouted. Her expression made her look delicate, almost innocent. it was an expression little-Arya sometimes wore when she was upset with him, or when they’d have one of their many squabbles in the Riverlands. 

“It doesn’t matter if it did,” Arya responded hoarsely, her throat sore from holding in her tears. “I don’t care.” Arya said. She shook her head and watched the focus of his blue eyes. She bit her lip, and diverted her eyes to the floor when she felt what was coming, Gendry’s hands were still on her face. 

Gendry could hear her sniffle. She wiped her face harshly with the back of her hand, before Gendry tilted her head back up, so their eyes met again. “Arya,” Gendry said. “If I’m not what you want,” he swallowed, “you have to let me let you go.” Gendry heard how his voice tremble. “I _know_ you. I _know_ you don’t mean to leave  _ her _ with me.”

Arya’s eyes lit up in distress. She was suddenly confronted with the revelation that she herself had not yet known, not until that precise moment. She could never leave the child with Gendry, could never not see her again, could never condemn the child to a bastard’s life, to be lonely and motherless , to be talked down upon everyday of her life.  _ No _ , Arya thought.

If Jon had been alive, they’d all be Beyond the Wall somewhere. Arya would be with Nymeria, and Jon with Ghost. The child could be a wildling princess, running free, running wild. All of the choices of who she wished to be, would be inside the palm of her hopeful hands. Except she’d be fatherless, and Arya would feel partially hollow from the gaping hole Gendry would have left inside of her. Perhaps she could never be fully complete again, not as she once was. 

Suddenly, it had all come down to when she’d leave Gendry, when she’d muster enough courage to go and never look back. Gendry’s eyes looked wet and hopeless, based on his expression, she knew he knew he was right. 

“Arya,” Gendry pleaded as he shook his head lightly. He grabbed Arya’s face tighter, “please don’t leave me here with nothing.” Arya studied Gendry’s face. He closed his eyes and aligned their foreheads, slumping to get to her level. Arya closed her eyes too. For a moment they just stood there, their breaths clashing against one another’s. 

When Arya opened her eyes, she found that Gendry’s were still closed. Her hands moved up to his chest. She felt his heart beat against her palms. He opened his eyes. Arya then traced her fingers over to his lips. She could feel his stare. It was hard and intense. “I don’t want to have to beg you.” He said as his lip quivered.

“I. I ...don’t know what to say-” Arya said shaking her head. A second later, Gendry quickly grabbed Arya’s face, with longing, and pulled her towards him. She kissed him back tenderly. When she opened her eyes, they parted. They didn’t say anything after that, just looked longingly into each other's somber expressions. 

Gendry felt his heart pound as he felt the ghost of her lips on his. Her puffy red face, messy brown hair, and that dangerous-look in her gray eyes made her so captivating. It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that he was going to kiss her again, and that he did not want Arya to let him go. He wanted her, all of her, and he knew there was some part of her, however small, that wanted him too.

Gendry grabbed her face fiercely and kissed her. The first kiss was gentle, and the second less gentle. By the third kiss, fire ignited between them. Gendry kissed her hard and deep, and she was on her toes making sure to not miss out on any of his mouth. Gendry began undressing her. He pulled off her tunic in a swift motion before letting their lips meet again. He ushered Arya back to the featherbed, his hands on her warm naked back, her hard breasts against his naked torso. 

Gendry laid her on the bed, hovering over her. Her lips were wet, and her eyes were glassy. Her cheeks were a deep red, and it did nothing but make her look more sweet. The life that had been growing inside her belly made her look more womanly, and fierce. His heart was pounding out of his skin, it felt. Just like their last time together, he felt drunk, but it felt like a different kind of drunk this time. He felt dizzier, felt more surreal and colorful. 

Their mouths met one another’s once more. They tasted each other, properly. It was slow and passionate, and full-of-fire. Arya’s hands moved to her trousers, as they kissed. She pulled down her pants and began squirming out of them. When they were off, she kicked them off the bed with her feet. Her hands going to Gendry’s trousers, as she quickly went to unlace them. When Arya unlaced them, Gendry pulled them off without taking his eyes off her. 

Arya closed her eyes as Gendry’s lips found her neck, her collarbone, then her chest. She felt his mouth around her breasts and a soft whimper slipped out of her mouth. He suckled one while he fondled the other. Arya felt moist in between her legs, and the thought made her shiver. The warmth in the pit of her stomach was making her see stars. 

Gendry inched down from her breasts, and rubbed a finger on the place where her scars were. Arya watched him caress her gruesome marks in deep focus. She tensed when he planted a kiss on them. His lips there tickled. She felt the moistness from his lips drag from her side to her swollen stomach. Gendry was lost in focus, his eyes were half-shut.

Gendry spread her legs gently but urgently, and his gentle kisses eventually reached her cunt. 

“What are you doing?” Arya cried out shyly. 

Gendry only continued. The kisses became hot, and dangerous. He tasted her properly, his eyes closed with concentration. Arya let out a repressed moan before she covered her mouth with her hands. Gendry wished she hadn’t, he wanted to hear her. He felt ravenous for the taste of her, for _all_ of her. 

He kissed her more harshly, and the sounds of slurping filled the room like a sweet sound. The moisture between her legs and his tongue clashed. He played with her pearl with his tongue and another exasperated sound came out of Arya’s mouth. He kissed her cunt tenderly once more before making his way back up from her belly, to her breasts, to her neck, and back to her pink mouth. 

Arya could taste herself on his lips. She could feel Gendry’s hardened moist length against her thigh. She grabbed at his cock and stroked it gently, massaging it against her hands. Gendry closed his eyes, a slight grunt came out of him. He knew if she carried as she did, he would spill his seed all over her hands, before he had the opportunity to be inside her, to be one with her as he had once been before. 

Gendry grabbed her wrist and shoved her hand away. He hovered over her. He kissed her once before lifting her knees and slowly opening her up again. Arya fussed dizzy with love. Gendry was different this time around, she thought, more tender yet more ravenous and demanding. Gendry aligned his cock with her drenched cunt. He rubbed himself in her wet folds while Arya whimpered. Then, he slowly pushed himself inside of her. She was so wet, that he entered her with complete ease. The sweet tightness was still there, still held him and suffocated him. Gendry swore he could see stars before his eyes. “_Gods_,” he said in a strain. 

As he moved inside of her, Arya could feel her hips moving on their own accord, against his movement. The size of him hurt her. She could feel him pounding against her walls, he was so deep inside her she could feel him in her lower stomach. But Arya did not say a word, it felt too nice. She quickly came to realize she liked the pain, and never wanted it to stop. She bit her lip and and felt the warmth, felt it like lightning moving from her cunt, to her belly, to her heart. She said his name, and he said hers too. The hunger got more and more intense, as Arya and Gendry tried to reach _that_ release. Arya’s hips moved faster as she pushed herself against his large cock. 

Gendry felt it coming, his seed, and became paralyzed completely. Two seconds later, they both grunted in a sweet pleasure. His warm seed spilled out inside of her once more. He groaned as it did. They both vibrated against each other a second later, twitching from their pleasure.

Arya and Gendry could hear the storm outside once more. They reluctantly returned back to their mortal worlds, back to jealousy, evil, and death. The thunder roared as Gendry pulled himself out of her carefully, he was still half-hard. They both made an identical sound when he slipped out. He laid down beside her after pulling his furs over their naked bodies. Arya turned to her side, her back facing Gendry. Gendry put his arms around her, still feeling dizzy. He planted a light kiss on her back before shutting his heavy eyelids hard. He did not want to dwell about the day when she’d leave him, he just wanted to sleep.

Arya felt her eyes moisten with tears. She stared at the stonewall once more. She wished they had not done what they’d done. It was only to make things more difficult when Arya was to leave Storm’s End. Whether that was back to Winterfell, or Beyond the Wall, or Essos, or the Riverlands … she did not know. She didn’t know what she wanted anymore. It was once clear, and now it was a blurred mess. She would have liked Gendry to leave with her forever, to run away with her, but she knew she couldn’t ask that of him. 

Arya grabbed his large rough hands and kissed them. She felt her tears as they finally and wholeheartedly leaked out of her eyes. Her heart was so fragile and brittle now. There wasn’t very much her dark heart could of handled now. She closed her eyes. She decided to let her sweet horror-filled dreams consume her for yet another night. As of lately, the dreams had scared her more than they used to. 


	5. Turbulent Animal Blood

Arya

The Stormlands were unusually bright. The clouds in the sky were white and puffy, and the skies were a soft light-blue instead of a murky dark-gray. Arya opened her window with a hard pull, and stuck half her body out. Beyond she could see rocks, and beyond that, a large mass of blue-gray seawater. The castle was high and mighty. It made everything below her look minuscule. To her right, she saw the shore, and the waves crashing against the land. The fishermen meddled with their nets and ropes on the deck. The seagulls made their calls, attempting to claim the fishermen’s game. Arya watched the skies as strong gusts of wind blew onto her face causing her to inhale a deep whiff of the ocean’s salty smell. Arya felt her eyes close as the winds and the warmth of the tame sunlight hugged her skin. She exhaled.

When Arya heard a knock at her door, she wondered how long she was standing by the window. She’d forgotten that Amiria was in the room with her. When Arya came into her chambers that morning, Amiria had the bed made, her hair had been made into a neat bun, and she was in a blue wool dress. The girl had fixed Arya a bath, and while Arya stripped, Amiria’s eyes went to Arya’s pregnant stomach. She frowned.

Arya knew the girl must have some idea as to what she and Gendry had been up to, her and Gendry were almost inseparable. Arya had given Amiria a face the second Amiria began to bombard Arya with her many questions. For a while it felt as if Sansa possessed the small girl. Arya asked to be left alone as she scrubbed herself clean. When Arya was done with her bath, and Amiria returned to their chambers, Amiria had not uttered another word. She simply sat up on the bed, completely invested by the book that sat upon her lap. 

“Come in,” Arya said at once as she stepped away from the window and faced the door. Amiria’s eyes went from her book to Arya in a sharp manner. 

The door pushed open. Arya could see blurs of light corrupt her vision from having stared outside the window for so long. The room looked exceptionally dark as her vision started to correct itself. Through the door, came in Gendry. He was dressed modestly in a tunic, breeches, and boots. He didn’t have any stags clipped anywhere, no jerkin on, and no cloak. Arya noticed that his face and hands were covered in soot, his hair was wet, and sweat leaked down his face. In his hand he held a long, wide scroll. 

“My lord!” Amiria called out, a little too excitedly. She jumped up from the bed, grabbed her book, and curtsied. “I’ll just-” Amiria looked between Gendry and Arya quickly before darting for the door. 

“-Amiria, you don’t have to-,” Arya started. Before Arya could finish her sentence, the girl flashed past Gendry, grabbed the door and closed it right behind her with a swift, yet gentle, slam. 

Gendry looked at Arya mockingly, Arya shot him a look, and averted her eyes quickly feeling the slight tension from the room. Gendry’s face broke into a mocking smile and he chuckled. 

“Leave her alone,” Arya said as she followed Gendry’s gaze and sat on the very-yellow bed, “You make her uncomfortable.” Arya found herself smiling as Gendry’s smile grew larger. 

“Why?” Gendry asked as he made his way towards Arya. 

“Because ...” 

“Because?” Gendry asked. He acted dubious as he reached her on the bed and plopped himself beside her, the dirt on his face made his eyes look piercing, and the sunlight coming through the windows, hitting his face, made them look mesmerizing. 

“She has honor.” Arya said. “And I’ve been ... _ dishonorable _ . It makes her uncomfortable that we’re … _ not to wed _.” 

“Fuck honor.” He spit out changing the subject of weddings almost immediately. Arya watched his face harden and immediately rolled her eyes. “No one is truly honorable, anyway.” She shook her head in opposition. 

“My father,” Arya heard herself blurt out all of a sudden. “My father was honorable. _ Truly _ honorable.” She said sincerely. “He wouldn’t like me now, either.” Arya said sadly. She felt Gendry’s attentive eyes on her. Arya felt sad at the thought of her father’s ghost not approving of her, not caring for this new person she had become. She had fornicated out of wedlock, more than once. And she had killed tens of men. She hadn’t even remembered all of their faces. She reeked of death, and she wondered if everyone else could smell it too. She wondered if Gendry could smell it. 

“Arya, your father was not _ always _ honorable,” Gendry answered matter-of-factly. Arya knew Gendry had been referring to Jon Snow, _ The Bastard of Winterfell _ . Jon had been Eddard's public statement of dishonor. _The Seven Kingdoms could go on believing that if they wanted_, Arya thought, it hadn’t been the truth. Her father never laid with another woman that hadn’t been her mother, and Jon Snow hadn’t been her brother. Her long faced, brown-haired, gray-eyed half-brother wasn’t really her half-brother. But not in her heart. In her heart he was her brother wholeheartedly. And even dead, she wouldn’t tell his secret to a soul. Not even to Gendry. 

Arya bit her lip as she watched Gendry. She felt her throat tighten as it so often had at the thought of her father, her mother, and Jon. 

“I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like a good man despite it.” Gendry continued. “And well, we’re all just ... _ people _ , and honor is just another word. Another word that folk of noble-birth use to make themselves seem superior to the rest of us. To seem _ better _.”

_ “To seem superior to the rest of us?” _ Arya shook her head changing the subject. She did not wish to speak of the complicated matters of her father and brother any longer. “You forget yourself, Lord Baratheon.”

“Shut up.” Gendry rolled his eyes. Arya wrinkled her nose and pinched him hard. Gendry held his arm where she pinched him. “Ow! What is wrong with you?” He cried as his face broke into a smile. Still, there was still a hint of defeat in his expression, a little bit of sadness underneath it, Arya could tell. He looked at her quickly, and then to the scroll in his hand. Arya could tell by his eyes, that his mind was suddenly elsewhere. Her mouth twisted. “What’s that?” She asked calmly. 

He reached it out to her. “It’s from your sister.” 

Arya grabbed the scroll from his hands, dreading what was possibly inside the letter. Sansa seldom wrote scrolls bearing good news. She looked at Gendry, and he looked back at her patiently. She felt her stomach flutter, and the baby inside her gave her a big hard kick. Arya shut her eyes in discomfort as the sensation began to withdraw. She could feel as Gendry watched her. She clutched onto her stomach waiting for the feeling to subside. When her eyes opened she realized he had inched closer to her.

“Have you read it?” She asked him in a strain. 

Gendry shrugged, not giving a straight answer. 

Arya opened the scroll as Gendry plopped down on the bed on his back. He smeared the yellow linens with the black smudge he brought with him from the forge. His messy tar-coated hair left the most impressionable smudge. Arya recalled how Amiria would not like that at all. 

Arya eyes uneasily fell to the scroll. 

_ Arya, _

_ When you receive this raven, it will have been three moons since you left Winterfell, and two moons since you arrived at Storm’s End. In a little over than two moons, you will be in the birthing bed. Whispers of your dishonorable affair with Gendry Baratheon have already spread throughout the seven kingdoms. I am afraid that wedding Gendry Baratheon might be your only option for a trueborn son now. _

_ I am aware this is not what we agreed upon. But I must also let you know that I do not believe our said agreement is truly in yours, or the child's best interest. The child will be half-Stark. It deserves better than to be cursed with the life of a bastard. Lord Gendry has agreed to wed you, and decline the Connington’s proposals, but only if you are to agree. _

_ You are a woman now, Arya. Not just any ordinary woman, a princess, a lady of power, and influence. Yield it. If not for you, for our dying house. If not for House Stark, for the life that grows inside you. Think hard on the matter. And be wary of who you trust, there may be people who wish to cause you harm. Keep yourself safe, little sister. The decision is yours only. Please write me before another moon is upon us. _

_ Sansa _  


Arya stood at once, unsure how she felt. She grabbed the scroll and ripped it in half. Then she ripped it again, and again, and again, until she couldn’t rip it any more. She felt Gendry’s eyes on her as she made her way towards the window. She released the small cut-up pieces of paper into the breezy afternoon air. She watched the little chunks of parchment dance in front of her eyes before they eventually flew from her sight, one by one. 

She turned back to Gendry, he was now sitting up, staring at her closely. Arya moved towards him, her eyes on the ground. She sat beside him stiffly and put her hand over his. His hands were dirty and rough. He took control of her hand and held it tightly. She felt him look at her deeply, and seriously, as he placed his hand on her cheek, his fingers went through her mess of brown hair. Arya was unable to look him straight in the face.

Gendry moved his hand from her face, and planted them on his lap. He looked at her closely, unable to say what he wanted to say, almost fighting with his stubbornness. “I hate being a lord,” he said finally. “You’re better with people than I am. Better with numbers! Someone like you should-”

“-Gendry.” She said and he stopped. Arya looked back at Gendry, her eyes wide and alarmed. “I don’t belong here. I belong in the north.” As soon as she said it, she wondered if it was true. If there was no place in Winterfell for her child, it made it no place for her. Arya could almost feel her heart breaking from the thought of Winterfell just being something from her past life. The feel of the cold summer gusts against her cheeks, the crypt’s hollow echoes, the warm hot springs; all those things will just be memories to her. Memories of when she was little, pure, and happy. She would have to find somewhere else to belong, if she could ever truly belong anywhere else but _home_.

Arya sat in thought for several moments. She stared out the window from her bed, her face was blank as she focused on the waters beyond. 

Gendry took a deep breath before he stood from the bed, and it was then that Arya’s mind had returned to her surroundings. She watched as Gendry started to make his way towards the door sullenly, defeatedly. “Gendry.” Gendry turned, his hand already on the door’s handle. 

She stood and moved towards him. Her walk was slower, now that her stomach had expanded. Her small breasts had grown swollen, and none of her breeches had fit her anymore. She was wearing a loose-fitting wool dress over her Stark-gray tunic, a belt was strapped under her stomach. Needle and her dagger were laid atop the table beside her bed. 

Arya pressed her palms on Gendry’s chest when she reached him at the door. She looked straight into his eyes. She could feel his heartbeat increase in between her fingertips. He looked down at Arya in anticipation. “_ If _ I were a lady-” Arya’s voice trembled.

“-if?” Gendry snapped. “You’ve always been a lady, Arya. Now, you’re a princess too.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Then I’m no lord, either.” 

“No, _ you _ are. It’s what _ you _ chose.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m sure you didn’t mind being a lady when your belly grumbled, and warm stew was brought to you at once. Or when you grew sick and cold, and your maester drowned you with sweet potions and herbs to make you feel well again.” 

Arya dropped her hands from his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes furious. Gendry’s face was not hard like hers, his eyes were sad. Arya’s eyes fell on his pink lips, the only part of his face that was completely free of soot. Gendry stood there stiffly. 

But if she wasn’t a lady, she might still have had her family. They’d probably live in a farm somewhere, or perhaps Beyond the Wall as wildings, where they could all roam free. All of them. Her father, her mother, Robb, Sansa, Bran and Rickon. And Jon Snow. In another life, Jon Snow and her would’ve been inseparable, together-forever, a proper team. But he was dead, dead like her mother and father, dead like Robb and Rickon. _ Dead. _

Arya suddenly felt hollow again, a hollowness that she hadn’t felt wholeheartedly since arriving at Storm’s End. Her face dropped from fury to sadness. She felt as if her heart became heavy. For a second she was worried that the tears would fall, but her eyes felt dry as her mood fell numb. 

“Just go back to your smithy, won’t you? Leave me be for once! I don’t want to have to see your stupid face _ all _ the time.” Arya shoved him away, but he hardly moved.

She could feel Gendry’s eyes follow her as she waddled back to her bed. She brushed off some of the black dust from the linens, fluffed the feather pillow, and climbed the tall bed. Arya laid down, her back to Gendry, and her eyes facing the stonewall. The warm air blew on the back of her neck and she shivered. 

“Arya.” He said after a while, breaking the tense silence. She could hear his shoes against the floor. Each step more distinct than the next. Though she wanted to tell him to leave, she wanted more to have his stupid arms around her, she wanted his warmth to subdue the ice that had froze her inside. “I don’t mean to be a prick.” Arya felt his rough hands plant themselves on her arm. “Not to you.” 

Arya turned towards him, and as she did Gendry knelt beside her bed and cupped her left-hand inside his hands. “Don’t go all soft now … _ stupid _,” she said. Her chest fluttered as the blue from his eyes fell down to her lips. Arya slowly ran her right-hand up his arms, from his forearm, to his upper-arm, to his neck, and finally to his cheeks. His mouth was slightly open as her fingers explored his face in a gentle caress. He stared at Arya in a trance, his eyes were lost just as hers had been. She concentrated on every detail of his face. His eyes shut in bliss, and he kissed her roaming fingers as they reached his lips. 

She stared at his lips as they kissed her fingers. Her tongue wet her lips as she pulled her hand back, away from Gendry’s face. He looked up at her carefully, his eyeballs glossy and gentle. Arya sat up at once, not taking her eyes away from him, and leaning towards him. Her lips were parted, as were his. It’s like she had no control when she was with him. She knew she would regret laying with Gendry again, but that hadn’t stopped her from asking. Her impulsivity was sometimes too strong for her, perhaps she could blame it on the _wolf-blood_.

“Could you make love to me again ... Like before?” She heard herself ask. She was dishonorable, and she couldn’t take it back, not anymore. Not with the statement of her own dishonor growing inside her belly. 

Gendry gulped. “Now?” 

Arya nodded. She blushed, suddenly embarrassed. 

“_Right_ _now_? At this hour?” 

Arya nodded again, her face becoming hotter. “_Unless_ … you don’t wish to.” She felt a drop of sweat leak from her forehead to her cheek. Suddenly, she felt stupid, and ugly. Sansa had always told her so, as did Jeyne Poole. Just because Gendry might have wanted to marry her, that didn’t mean he wanted to share her bed _ all _ the time. Not with women like Alynne Connington roaming around the castle begging him for his affections. _ Alynne was plenty more comely than I could ever wish to be _, Arya thought.

Gendry looked up at the young woman before him. Her straight brown hair had looked wild, wavy, and messy. Her cheeks were a soft red from her blush. Her dark gray eyes looked lighter, they almost sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. Her long eyelashes opened and closed in a manner that made it seem as though time slowed. Gendry felt his heart patter as he stood, climbing on the bed beside her. He placed his hand on her face like before, and stroked her cheek with his thumb. 

“I wish to.” Gendry said at once before he leaned down, and united their parted lips with one another’s. Arya grabbed his face with both hands as she kissed him deeply. Gendry kissed her back gently as she rose to her knees. She then placed her hands on his waist. He felt hard, and strong, and muscled even over his tunic. Arya shivered and opened her mouth wider to make room for his tongue. She held him closer as they kissed. Gendry was hunched over, on his knees, not missing a second of her mouth, suddenly grabbing her face. Arya’s mouth moved fast and hungrily, she wanted to taste him in her mouth.

Gendry seemed almost hungry too, Arya thought, but maybe not as much. His mouth quickly moved down to her neck, kissing her there eagerly. Arya tilted her head to the side to feel the moistness of his lips on her neck. A moan slipped out from her parted lips. She felt her eyes go behind her head. 

Before the harsh grips of Arya’s hands could tear off his tunic, the sounds of knuckles hitting wood had interrupted them. Gendry presumed as if he had heard nothing, but Arya pulled away from his warm touch at once. She could feel the wetness Gendry’s mouth had left on her neck. It almost hurt to separate herself from him. 

“Leave it,” he said as he attempted at pursing her again with his mouth.

Arya gave him a face. She wanted nothing more than to ignore it, but she couldn’t, not when it could’ve been Amiria, Amiria who’s been so kind to her, Amiria who has fetched her bath and cleaned vomit from her jerkins. 

“It’s probably Amiria,” Arya informed Gendry, shoving him down on the bed. He fell on the bed on his back. “_ Just _ … hold still.” She quickly combed her fingers through her hair. She wiped away the moistness on her mouth and neck as she jumped out the featherbed and walked towards the door, quickly.

“One second, Amiria,” she said before opening the door in an exasperated yank. She opened the door wide, and when she realized it was a girl with red hair instead of brown, she quickly unwidened the door, leaving it just a crack open while sticking her head out. She felt nervous all of a sudden. 

“I’m sorry, princess.” A soft voice had said. “Is it a bad time? I can come again later, if it please you.”

It was Alynne. It was almost as if she grew prettier with each passing day. Today she had her straight red hair fashioned high in a Southern-Style, the way the ladies in the capital liked to wear it. The volume made her look queenly, and more mature. She wore an elegant golden silk dress and a red pendant around her neck. It was of a griffin. Her breasts looked plump and her curves were all so womanly. _ She was a man’s walking fantasy _, Arya thought, suddenly feeling insecure about her small build, scrawny limbs, and small breasts. 

“-I-um.” Arya shook her head attempting to find her words. “What brings you here, my lady?” Arya asked as she studied the young woman’s face. She was wearing a frown on her freckled face. Alynne looked red and somber and her hands were clutching onto a white handkerchief. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, princess, and I don’t want to cause you any worry. I just thought we could talk. Alone.” Arya saw how the girl’s eyes darted up behind her, and at once, she knew Alynne had seen Gendry in her bed. Arya felt herself blush. She looked down embarrassed and opened the door a little wider. 

“It’s not-It’s not what you think-” 

-You do not have to explain yourself to me, princess.” Alynne smiled warmly at Arya. And Arya smiled back still feeling a little ashamed. “I have not come to chastise you. I am not your septa.” 

“I-”

“-I could come back later. Some better time. I should not have shown up so unexpectedly.”

“It’s alright, Lady Alynne. Lord Baratheon was just heading back to the smithy.” Arya responded much too loudly. The sounds of Gendry shifting in the featherbed, and his distinct footsteps making their way towards them all rang in Arya’s ears while she studied Alynne further. She wondered what the girl wanted to speak about, and what she had looked so solemn about. Something told Arya it had something to do with Gendry and suddenly she dreaded the idea of speaking to the young woman alone.

Gendry adjusted his breeches as he walked, and when he made it to the door he pushed it open wider, almost harshly. Arya stepped back to make way for him to leave. She felt his frustration radiate from within him. Arya watched Alynne’s eyes as they locked onto the tall, dirty soot-covered man before her. Alynne’s lips parted as she did. “My lord,” she said almost seductively with a curtsy. But Gendry failed to acknowledge her, he only side-eyed Arya and stalked off mumbling some obscenities Arya couldn’t make out. 

When Gendry’s footsteps faded out, Arya held the door open for Alynne. “Come in.” 

Alynne came in, still clutching her handkerchief, her hair remaining stiff and straight as she walked. Arya closed the door behind them. 

“Sit. Anywhere.” 

Alynne walked quickly towards the bed, almost nervously, clearly shaken up about something. Arya noticed Alynne looking at the soot imprint on the bed and cringed. Alynne sat upon the bed anyway, her posture perfect, and her hands neatly folded on her lap. Arya saw her gulp as she sat on the featherbed beside her. Alynne faced her lap rather than at Arya, she chewed on her lip. 

“What’s wrong, Lady Alynne? Are you alright?”

“Did I offend my lord? Was it a bad time? Speak truly.”

“No.” Arya answered bluntly. 

“But he seemed angry. You know him better than anyone. Was he angry? Was he angry with _ me _?” 

_ You know him better than anyone, _ the thought made Arya shiver. “He’s always angry. It’s the Baratheon blood … _ I suppose _.” 

“Yes,” Alynne answered hysterically, smiling widely. “Yes, perhaps that’s it.” 

Arya smiled at the girl again hoping to bring her any sort of comfort. She had spoken to Alynne before, and even then, Alynne had been kind and warm towards Arya. The first time they had spoken was not long before Arya arrived at Storm’s End. They hadn’t spoken about anything particularly interesting, just casual conversation. It had mostly just been about the weather in the Stormlands, Arya’s month-long journey to the south, and about Griffin’s Roost. Arya hadn’t found the girl incredibly captivating, but she did like the way she spoke. Alynne was soft-spoken. Her voice was gentle, breathy, and song-like. There also wasn’t one word that Alynne could mispronounce.

“I want to be your friend, princess. Your _true_ friend.” Alynne said all of a sudden. She grabbed Arya’s hands and pulled them close towards her. “We can look after one another.” Alynne’s face looked focused. Arya thought about the odd gesture coming from Alynne, they had hardly known each other. And pretty high-born girls never paid any mind to Arya, or even liked her very much. Usually, it was Sansa whom they were truly interested in. 

“Well. I’d like to be your friend, Alynne.” Arya answered with a smile, she did not mind making yet another friend. There had been a time when Arya had sworn off companions and allies. They had only made things harder for her, especially if they had grown weak, or died on her. _ Some _ even ended up growing tired of her. But since Arya’s arrival at Storm’s End, it seemed that friends lied at every corner waiting on her. Her newfound friends had come so naturally that it almost seemed more difficult to not have them than it was to have them.

“Is _ that _ what you came to ask of me?” 

“That’s quite wonderful to hear, princess.” Alynne smiled eagerly as she squeezed Arya’s hands, a bit too hard. “But no, that’s not _ all _ I’ve come to tell you.” Alynne answered as she loosened her grip on Arya’s hands. 

“What is it?” 

“Well …” 

“Go on.” Arya insisted curiously, her eyes attentive. 

“I’m sure Lord Baratheon has told you, already. You two are awfully close, I imagine. I’m sure he’s told you that my brother intends for he and I to wed.” Alynne looked down as she bit her lip. She began to fumble with her handkerchief once more. “And I wanted to ask you, princess. I wanted to ask you if that was alright?” 

“Alynne.” Arya sighed.

“Of course, nothing would happen until your child is born. That is, _ if _ it happens. _ If _ you’ll allow it to happen. _ If _ you would _ want it _ to happen.” 

“What do you wish for me to say, Lady Alynne? I do not know what to say.” Arya felt ill all of a sudden. She could feel the life inside her begin to kick at her again. She tried to mask the discomfort of the kicks by digging her nails into the skin of her forearms. 

“Do you love him?”

Arya stayed quiet, unable to answer the question aloud. 

“If you tell me you love him. I’ll leave him alone. Forever. I’ll accept that he does not belong to me, no matter how much that might hurt, no matter how often I might _ dream _ of him.” 

“You … _ dream _ of him?” Arya asked as she clutched her stomach, waiting for her physical discomfort to subdue. 

Alynne did not answer the question, only smiled at Arya with a hard sigh. The girl looked almost on the verge of tears, Arya noted. “He does not care for me.” Alynne’s lips began to quiver at once. “He will _ never _ care for me like he cares for you.” 

Arya bit her lip as her discomfort subsided all at once. But there was still some discomfort inside of her, something stronger, something that was not physical. She would take physical displeasure over emotional displeasure any day, she thought. 

“I can not make Gendry do anything he does not want to do, Alynne. You _ must _ know that, if you truly love him .” Arya responded. She tried not to be harsh, to understand where Alynne was coming from, but something about Alynne and Gendry _ together _ , in _ that _ way, made Arya irritable. She did not want to think of them together, did not want to ever experience it in her lifetime. 

“I know.” Alynne said. “_ I know _ .” Her bottom lip began to quiver more violently, and Arya knew what was coming before it came. Alynne gasped lightly, and a second later there was saltwater leaking out of her eyes, running down her freckled face. She brought her handkerchief to her face and patted her wet cheeks gracefully. “What I truly want is for _your_ happiness, princess. As well as Gendry’s.” Alynne saying his name made Arya stiff. “I want us to be friends, _ all _ of us.” Alynne laid a gentle hand on Arya’s stomach. 

Arya was not sure she quite liked Alynne. She did and then she did not. “I’m afraid you’ll have quite a task ahead of you trying to befriend Gendry. He’s not the friendliest.” Arya looked around the room. “Or even the most interesting,” she lied, she always thought Gendry quite intriguing, actually.

Alynne brought her hand back to her handkerchief. “I have heard whispers.” Alynne stood at once, still dabbing at her cheeks with her cloth. “But I am quite like you, princess. I make friends everywhere I go.” She smiled sweetly, and as she did a chill moved up Arya’s spine. Arya smiled back anyway. 

Arya watched as the young woman began to move towards the door, her hips swaying from side to side sensually. Arya got lost in the bright gold of her dress, in the hypnotic way her body moved. She wondered what Gendry saw in her, she wondered why Gendry spent all his time with an unkempt, loud-mouthed, wolf-girl, when he could of had Alynne Connington. Daenerys Targaryen was perhaps the only woman Arya thought more beautiful than Alynne, even Sansa would look almost plain besides the Connington girl. 

Alynne turned back sharply and Arya jumped. “So. Do you?”

“Do I?” 

“Truly love him? As anything other than an old friend, than a brother?” Alynne asked as she sniffed, her face still red from her tears. Arya thought the question odd, she had been carrying Gendry’s child in her belly after all. “Do not feel you need to answer, princess.” 

“I.” Arya said. Alynne waited. 

Arya wanted to lie, to Alynne, to herself, but something within her did not let her. She could not say yes, but she could not say no. Arya stared at the girl, her mouth ajar, her lips failing to say what she truly wanted to say. She felt Alynne watch her patiently. So she said only what she could say. It was a hint of what she truly wanted to say, what was there deep in her heart of hearts waiting to come pouring out. 

“Alynne, as my friend, you must know the answer to that already.” Arya shook her head and shrugged. “You _ must _.” 

Arya was sure that hadn’t been the answer Alynne wanted, but alas it was the only thing Arya could dare say. Alynne perhaps did not think Arya brave enough. Alynne nodded, her eyes becoming wet with tears once more. A hint of a smile appeared on her face, she smiled bravely for Arya, smiled bravely for her friend before she resumed her swaying, this time not as confident, not as sensual. 

“Princess,” she said with a curtsy, a sniffle, and a forced smile. “I will see you at supper.”

“Yes.” Is all Arya could respond before the girl’s golden dress and bright red hair were gone from her view. The door closed gently, and when it did, the sound of the breeze and the ocean coming from the glass windows overhead, rang in Arya’s ears. 

Arya laid back down on her bed. She stroked her cheeks carefully, as the wind blew over her. She stared up at the high-ceilings and felt uneasy. She wasn’t sure why she felt nervous, but she did. Her hands suddenly fell to her large belly. She looked down at it and stroked it. She moved her fingers in circles, and as she did she felt light subtle movement. She smiled. She then looked at her fingers and realized they were dirty with soot as was her tunic and dress. She had been speaking to Alynne covered in soot. The thought made her wince in embarrassment. _ Stupid _, she said shaking her head thinking of the mockery her and Gendry had just made of Alynne Connington. 

  


Gendry 

The maester had left Gendry reading about Jaehaerys I and Alysanne Targaryen. Although the large old book consisted mostly of King Jaehaerys’ accomplishments and deeds, Gendry found himself more interested in Alysanne. She had been small, and thin. Her hair was gold, her eyes blue, and although pretty, she did not take after those otherworldly beautiful Targaryen traits of silver hair and violet eyes. She had been improper in her interests. She was a huntress, a proficient archer, and a dragon rider. She treated the highborn and lowborn equally, and was beloved by all her people. She was known to leave her mark on whoever she spoke to. She was fair and strong, even if the death of her son had made her fragile, she had still been strong. She was powerful and bright, until the day that she died. 

Gendry sat in thought. The large library was silent and vast. There was a vibrant light coming in through the high glass windows. The Stormlands hadn’t seen rain in almost half a fortnight. Gendry wanted to return to the forge. He despised not working with his hands, it was what he was made for, not for sitting around, not for reading and studying. He sighed. Maester Jurne had walked off a while ago, he wondered if the tough old man would return. Perhaps he could escape back to the forge. What could that old man do to him anyway? Shout at him? Scold him as if her were four-and-ten again? _ No _. 

In just a couple of moons Arya will have birthed his child. The thought made him sick. He felt his stomach tremble with nerves. There weren’t many moments where he did not think of his future child. He wished the child was the girl he saw in his dreams, the one that laid upon blue roses in a yellow dress. The one with the thick black hair and ice blue eyes. He’d see her with a silver stag pendant hanging around her little neck, singing, red leaves surrounding her. Was she truly her daughter? Why had Arya seen her too? He wished it so, he wished everything could turn out alright despite the dark feeling he felt in his gut. 

Arya had been sleeping more often than she usually had. She had always seemed tired. Maester Jurne had told him that it was normal for women to feel tired around this time in their pregnancies, because it had been now, that the baby was truly expanding, was truly preparing for the world. Every time he entered his chambers in the late night hours, she would be asleep in his large tunic, her back to him, and her legs wrapped around his furs. 

They hadn’t touched or made love again, not since their second time. They had come close not too many days ago, before Lady Alynne had rudely interrupted them. Gendry wanted nothing more than to touch her, hold her, and claim her. He wanted her to belong to him wholeheartedly to-

-“AHH!” The scream had pierced the library’s silence. The previous silent humming disappeared at once.

Gendry nearly jumped out of his chair. His heart began to thump vigorously against his chest. The obnoxious shout had nearly ceased his hearing altogether. He clutched his chest, startled. A second later he heard her laughter, it was only then that his adrenaline allowed him to come to his senses. 

“Son of a whore!” Gendry cried out. “What is wrong with you?! Can’t you be a proper lady? For once?” He had already began to crack, Gendry felt the smile form on his face and tried his best to mask it, but her laughter was contagious. 

Arya squinched up her face, a wide smile still planted on her features. “No,” she answered. 

Gendry studied her. She was wearing a thin ivory flowing dress, a messy brown side-braid, with needle and her dagger on each side of her hips. Sweat trickled down her forehead and her cheeks were flushed, like she had just been running. She stepped closer to Gendry, standing behind him, as she placed her hands on his shoulders. Gendry shuddered. 

“_ Jaehaerys and Alysanne _. They were good.” Arya stated. 

Gendry shrugged. “I suppose they were better than most.” 

“Most kings and queens? Or most Targaryens.” 

“Both.” Gendry said. “But. She reminds me of you. A bit.”

“Alysanne?” Arya asked. “No,” she insisted. 

Gendry turned to look at Arya standing above him, even though he was sitting, she did not necessarily tower over him, they had been nearly the same height this way. Gendry’s eyes met hers. He nodded. “Yes,” he persisted. 

“You insult Alysanne’s memory. I’m no queen, no hunter, no dragon-rider. My own bloody direwolf didn’t want me.” 

“That’s not true, Arya. You enter her in your dreams, you have a _ bond _ . Like the Targaryens with their dragons. I’ve heard you howl in your sleep.” Gendry turned away from Arya, attempting to return his attention to his book. “You helped end the _ Winter _.” Gendry squinted at the words before him. “Besides, I’m sure your bitch will come again looking for you. She wouldn’t seek you in your dreams if she hated you.” Gendry tried to find where he had left off, tracing over the words with his fingers. But he knew deep down it was no use, not with Arya’s presence distracting him back there. 

“_ Well _ , _I_ seek _ her _.”

“Does it matter?” Gendry retorted before a short silence fell between them. He could hear Arya fidgeting behind him. She probably had something to say, Gendry observed. He waited as he pretended to find the words where he left off in the old book. 

“I’m sorry I made you leave so suddenly. _ That _ day, when Alynne came-”

“-it’s alright.” 

“It’s not” 

“I said it is.” 

Gendry looked around the study. His table had about ten heavy dusty half-open books upon it. This was not what he was made for, he thought again. _ Was this truly what lords did? _He supposed they did when they were young boys, but not as men grown. Gendry hadn’t had that luxury, not in Flea bottom, not when he was starving half the time and trying to fend off thieves, and all the illnesses that lurked on every corner. 

Gendry slammed the large book closed, not even bothering to mark his page. He was a man grown, he was three-and-twenty and a _ lord _ , he had nothing to fear from the austere old man, what could he do? Truly? Gendry thought he could go back to the forge, or perhaps practice with his hammer, or lie down with Arya in his bed where they could … _talk_ or _sleep_. He turned to Arya at once, ready to ask her what she planned to do before supper, but she was not behind him. 

“Arya?” He called out.

“Shhh.” She whispered and he turned startled. Her voice had come from under the table. She had been crouched on her knees, her finger over her lips. She inched closer to Gendry, quickly reaching for the lace of his breeches. 

“What are you doing?” He felt his face become warm. He grabbed Arya’s left hand in a tight grip. “The maester could come in.” 

Arya yanked her hand away from Gendry and slapped it away. “I have ears. I’ll hear him.” She quickly went back to unlacing his breeches quickly, her fingers shaking slightly. 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” 

Arya shrugged completely focused on Gendry’s lap. When his trousers were loose enough she tugged them down harshly, as Gendry watched her in awe. She looked nervous, he noted, even though she acted like she was not. He felt his length, almost completely erect already. He shook as her soft hands attempted to free him from his breeches. Gendry watched her closely, her wet parted lips, her red cheeks, her soft nimble fingers. She looked beautiful, feral, and hungry. 

She planted a tender kiss on his cock. Gendry shivered. She stuck her tongue in his slit before taking him in her mouth. Gendry watched her in surprise, he had no idea what possessed her, or how she learned to do what she was doing. She pulled back his skin as she sucked on the head of his cock. She stroked him while she sucked, she wasn’t toothy like the girls in his past had been. He gripped the chair as he watched her, trying to repress his grunts. “Arya,” he heard himself whisper. And with that, Arya suddenly looked up at him surprised, her eyes wide and alarmed. She began pulling up his trousers suddenly. “Sorry,” Gendry made a sound of opposition as she began to retreat from his lap. “He returned sooner than I expected.” Arya said, almost disappointed.

She crawled from out of the table and stood quickly, as Gendry quickly went to lace up his breeches. When she stood before him she hesitated before running off, but did anyway. A second later she stopped, walked a couple of steps back towards Gendry, returning by his side to stand before him. Gendry’s eyes glistened. As he looked at her, he fumbled with his pants. Arya grabbed his face, and kissed him on the lips lightly, he could feel her smiling in the process. 

Gendry stood at once, finally hearing Maester Jurne’s steps rearing. He looked at Arya and she looked back at him. He grabbed her soft hands, and like that they ran out of the study together, in unison. It was as if they were children again, orphan children running away from Lannister men in the Riverlands.

Arya’s very pregnant state forced her to fall behind slightly, but Gendry pulled her forward with a mighty force, and Arya went faster, laughing as the air hit her face. Once they reached the narrow halls of the castle, they realized that Maester Jurne had probably not even seen them. Their hearts raced in their chests. They laughed stupidly. _ What could Maester Jurne do to them anyway? _ They were a man and woman grown, even if it hadn’t felt like that at all sometimes. 

  
  



	6. The Southern Storms of Winter

Arya

Arya felt her heart beating more actively and madly than usual. She stared at her stew while the hall buzzed around her in chatter. Everything moved in a blur around her, she felt light-headed, weak, and panicked. And she couldn’t understand why her bones trembled. Things had been rather nice. The Stormlands were experiencing beautiful weather. The sun was visible in the sky most days, and the clouds looked white instead of gray. The nights were brisk, clear, and full of stars. Arya heard Poppy’s mother, Isolde, speaking to the kitchen staff just a couple days prior, about how beautiful days just signified a mighty storm underway.  _ A Storm is coming _ , Arya thought as the alteration of the Stark words rang in her head. 

She poked at a piece of meat with her fork and brought it up to her mouth. She chewed slowly and unenthusiastically. Her stomach felt fragile, and her appetite had become almost nonexistent the past couple of days. She wondered why that was. She always thought pregnant women were especially hungry. She felt Amiria’s watchful eyes on her, concerned but warm. Gregor was sitting on the bench as usual, trying to make everyone laugh, while still scarfing down his stew.

Arya scanned for Gendry’s eyes. He was sitting on the bench with everyone. The thought made her smile. “ _ Don’t let your people die for a stranger, _ ” her father’s words echoed in her head. Gendry sat in the center, while Arya and Amiria sat at the ends of the bench. Gendry was talking to Ser Davos about something while he took large spoonfuls of his stew. He looked incredibly fierce, Arya thought. His hair was wilder and darker than ever, his dark eyebrows bushy, and his short black beard made him look older. He wore his lord’s attire. It did nothing but make him look more beautiful and strong. Sitting he still towered over most, his shoulders broad and hard even under his yellow cloak. Arya found herself biting her lip. 

Alynne was sitting close to Gendry as usual. Arya stared at the girl wondering why she never tried to sit with her and Amiria instead. Arya knew in her heart that Alynne didn’t  _ really _ want to be her friend after all. The thought offended her but also filled her with some relief, she did not like talking much to Alynne anyway. _Besides_, she had plenty of other friends, and Amiria herself was like ten different friends in one small body. 

Arya looked over at her friend. Amiria was in a simple gray dress, she wore her long light-brown hair down for once, it nearly reached her thighs. The girl was staring at someone in awe. Her hand over her heart, subtlety not in her nature. Arya smiled at her innocence as she followed her brown eyes to a certain person in the hall.  _ Elwood Meadows _ . Arya jumped at the sight of him. It made sense that Amiria would be smitten with the prettiest boy in the Stormlands. Elwood sat across from them, just a couple people in between them. He was wearing green again, a deep green cloak with a black tunic. His bronze curls fell over his eyes, his chin was dimpled, and his nose was narrow and thin. His light green eyes scanned the table.  _ He was prettier than Joffrey Baratheon ever was _ , Arya thought.

Amiria and Sansa were the same age, and had the same interests and tastes, they liked the same boys, sweets, the same clothes, the same poems, but Amiria was louder, clumsier, and certainly not as pretty as her sister. But Amiria had something else, she was kind, selfless, with not one mean bone in her body. That alone made her just as beautiful as Sansa in Arya’s eyes.

“_Oh_, he’s so lovely,” Amiria whispered to Arya as she eyed Elwood. The chatter in the hall was louder than usual. The nice weather surely had the Stormlanders in good spirits. Arya did not look at Elwood, and hoped he would not look her way, not after  _ the incident _ that had transpired just a couple days prior. 

Arya smiled at the girl and shrugged. “I suppose.” Arya answered as she stuffed another piece of meat in her mouth and chewed. It felt like even chewing required so much energy from her, she wondered why she felt so lethargic all of a sudden, just a couple of days ago she was running the halls with Gendry, and practicing with Needle with complete ease. 

“Look at him!” Amiria exclaimed in a loud whisper. “He’s beautiful.” Arya refused to look at him for if she did, she would have to relive that awful incident in the corridors. She blushed ashamedly thinking of that moment again, and again anyway. She pushed her bowl away at once. She covered her face in embarrassment wanting nothing more than to flee to her chambers. Amiria squeezed Arya’s arm, oblivious to Arya’s body language. “Don’t you think he’s so handsome?” 

Arya sighed, slightly annoyed. “He’s way  _ too _ pretty, Amiria.” Arya responded bluntly. “He looks like a girl.” 

“He does not!” Amiria argued excitedly as she tightened her grip on Arya’s arm again and spoke to her closely. “He’s strong, and his jaw is strong, and-and-he’s bearded-”

“-he is  _ not _ bearded.” Arya protested as she thought about his hardly-noticeable light-brown stubble. Next to Gendry, Elwood looked like a little green boy. 

“That’s alright. I suppose I don’t like bearded men anyway.” Amiria confessed as she let go of Arya’s arm. She looked over her shoulder, side-eyeing Arya’s food. Arya’s bowl was nearly full. “Are you alright? You haven’t been eating properly. I could go into the kitchens and tell them to make you something else.” 

“No, Amiria, that’s alright. I’m just … _not hungry_.” 

Amiria planted her hands on Arya’s cheeks, and then on Arya’s forehead to feel her temperature. “You’re warm. _Much_ too warm.” 

Arya quickly pulled Amiria’s hands off her face and shot her a look. Arya looked around and noticed no one was looking at them, still the gesture made Arya feel like a small useless little girl. Amiria quickly apologized, ashamed, when she felt Arya’s discomfort. 

“It’s alright, Amiria. I just don’t want people feeling like I’m-” 

“-No, of course!” Amiria answered loudly, a bit of sadness in her tone. “I understand.”

Amiria stopped talking for the rest of the meal, and sat with her thoughts as Arya did. Every few moments Amiria would side-eye the master-at-arms while she stirred her stew with her spoon, like Arya, not eating much either. They sat quietly as the sounds of people talking, silverware, and tables scraping floors all rang in their ears. Arya’s eyes went searching for Gendry once more. This time Davos was gone and in his place sat Alynne. Gendry ate as some soldiers spoke to him, and she saw Alynne nodding at them, being apart of their conversation, properly participating. They looked like lord and lady sitting that way. 

Arya felt herself clench her fists hard from under the table, and she felt her jaw as it tightened. Frustration filled her at her core, and as it did, she began feeling more foggy, and more light-headed than usual. And on top of that, she felt as if she was being watched. When she averted her eyes from Gendry her eyes locked with Elwood who was staring at her, almost coldly. Arya looked to Amiria, but Amiria was too preoccupied playing with her stew. 

“I think I need some rest.” Arya whispered to her friend.

“Yes. I’ll come with you.” Amiria insisted and Arya nodded. They both stood quickly as the entire table stood right after them and a mess of voices bellowed “ _ Princess _ ,” in unison. Arya smiled at everyone and curtsied clumsily, feeling heavy and slightly out-of-breath after standing from the bench so quickly. As she scanned the crowd her eyes met with Gendry’s, he watched her carefully as she bit her lip and strode off. She met with Elwood’s eyes briefly but quickly cut contact. The girls walked off quickly, Amiria’s hand protectively and subconsciously on Arya’s back. 

…

Arya laid in bed thinking of that damned scene in the hallways as Amiria laid next to her flipping the pages of her poetry book with one hand, and biting her nails with the other. She wondered if it was as bad as the thought, but the more she relived the event in her head, the worse it got. It had happened after Arya and Gendry escaped from the library, and Maester Jurne.

They ran down the corridor, the long narrow halls echoing with their laughter. It was Arya who made them stop. The only thing they could hear were the waves outside, and the sounds of their breaths. Arya had spotted a tiny room, it was more of an opening for the room had no door. It was dark due to its lack of windows and candles, as well as narrow, and full of wooden barrels, weapons and sacks of grain. 

Arya pulled Gendry into the room by his forearm. He was reluctant at first, unsure what she was up to, but he followed her anyway, with a big smile upon his face. Arya had pushed him against the wall, as she went down to her knees and quickly began fumbling with the laces of his breeches, her fingers were shaking. Arya had looked up at Gendry, his eyes were wide and alarmed, but he stood against the wall as still as a rock. 

“You don’t have to-” 

“- _ I want to _ .” Arya retorted as she pulled his pants down to his ankles. Gendry’s length jutted out from his breeches. He watched Arya closely, Arya watched him closely too, _the entire time_. Arya brought her left hand to his cock and began to stroke him at once. She drenched her lips with her tongue and parted her lips as she gently stroked his foreskin back and forth in a sweet rhythm, the head of his length bulging out, waiting for her warm mouth. Arya opened her mouth to make way for him as she placed him inside her mouth. Her tongue squirmed in between his slit as she sucked on the head, unable to go much deeper due to his girth and overall size. 

Gendry grunted, and his knees shook slightly. As Arya continued to work on him, he placed his hand on the back of her head, taking all her hair in his harsh grip. The gesture made Arya shiver, she liked the pulling, liked how at times he’d pull her hair a little too hard. Arya rubbed on the body of his cock in her pattern, but after a while, she began to go faster, her mouth acting like a suction for the tip of his length. She tasted him thoroughly while her right hand massaged his balls. “ _ Arya _ .” He whispered. “ _ Fuck _ .” He whispered a second later in a strain, his eyes were closed, his mouth was completely ajar. He pulled on her hair harder and it only made her go faster. “ _ Arya _ .  _ Wait-wait _ .  _ Someone’s- _ ” He moaned. “ _ -Someone’s coming _ ,” he said again in a groan his grip even tighter on her hair. 

Arya continued, quicker, she could not remember what she had been thinking. Perhaps she could not hear anything herself, or rather thought she could finish him off before anyone caught them. But she couldn’t have stopped then,  _ not again _ . “ _ Arya-someone’s- _ ” and then all at once he came gushing out into her mouth. Gendry cried out in a harsh masculine groan, unable to repress it. And that was the moment when the two men passed the tiny room, stopping to look into it, looking straight into Arya’s eyes while Gendry’s seed leaked out from the edges of her mouth. She gulped his salty thick substance as Gendry quickly pulled up his breeches. Arya turned away from the men to wipe her mouth with her sleeve, her heart beating so hard she could feel it pound inside her throat. 

“ _ Sorry! Sorry! _ ” The men said in unison as they stalked off awkwardly pretending they didn’t see what they saw, or heard what they heard. Arya could not tell who the men were, the room was too dark, but luckily, or rather unluckily, Gendry had. He looked at Arya as he rubbed his face in complete shame. Arya felt it too, the shame, probably more so than Gendry. But when Gendry informed Arya the men had been his master-at-arms Elwood and his guard Harlick, the shame had intensified for Arya. She knew these men, they were her friends,  _ more or less _ . She hoped Elwood and Harlick were not the gossiping type, but that might have been too much to hope for, these kinds of things always had a way of spreading like wildfire either way. 

“Arya?” Gendry had asked with his eyes facing down and his fingers working on his pants. 

“What?” 

“Where did you learn that?” Gendry was out of breath still, his chest moving in and out, as he watched her closely. 

Arya shrugged. “I saw it.” 

“That’s it? You  _ only _ saw it?” 

Arya nodded, and Gendry gave her a face of disbelief, and scoffing in the process. Arya did not know if she should be offended or flattered, so she went with offended. Gendry finished tightening his laces. He then pushed his thick black hair from his face and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Arya stood from the floor, her bony knees slightly aching as she went to stand. She was frowning as was he. 

“Am I the only man you’ve ever been with? Truly?” He asked. Something about the question angered Arya. He watched her face with his ice eyes piercing into her, full of jealousy and a hint of distrust. The thought of Gendry not trusting her was like a punch to her belly. She wanted to be angry, to shove him away and call him an _"arse,”_ but it was as if she could not muster any of that. Her eyes welled up with tears.  _ Stupid _ , she thought to herself, _you_ _ stupid, weak woman _ . If she could even call herself a woman, she still felt like the little girl trudging the war-torn Kingsroad, even now, after all this time.

Arya only shook her head and scoffed. She walked away before she could get upset. She would not let Gendry see her being so sensitive. She heard him call out to her but she ignored him. She placed her hand on her stomach seeking comfort in the child inside her. She paced off, as fast as her condition allowed her. Gendry had the ability to get her so angry, sometimes she felt like he could make her go completely mad. Sometimes she wished she could hate him, damn him, curse him to hell, but as hard as she tried, that never seemed to work. With every step she took to further herself away from him, she felt more and more alone. 

…

The next morning, Arya awoke next to Amiria, she felt moist with sweat. Her slumber had been restless. She wondered if that was because she hadn’t slept in Gendry’s bed. The smell of his skin as he held her usually subdued the nightmares, and the nightmares had been especially unnerving that specific night. 

She dreamt of Robb, headless, wearing Grey Wind’s head, a Winter crown placed upon him. And she dreamt of Jon screaming in agony as a dragon with red and black scales breathed fire upon his flesh. She saw a heart-tree crying tears of blood, it’s red leaves howling in what sounded like an eerie hush. It was whispering something to her, never speaking in true sentences. “ _ Arya Stark of The North _ .” And, “ _ home _ ,” and “ _ the wolf-blood _ ,” and “ _ children _ .” The last thing she remembered was the image of an infant, lifeless, atop what looked like a bird’s nest, rain crashing on its blue body. 

The early dawn partially lit the room with a soft blue light. Arya shook and shivered as she pulled the linens off her body to sit upright. At once she felt her head light and pounding, drowsiness still upon her despite feeling sleepless and on-edge. Her heart was beating profusely and her stomach was in knots, as it had been days before. She knew she should have awoken Amiria, or perhaps go seek Maester Jurne, but she did not. Bothersome thoughts filled her head, for a second she wondered if she had still been inside her dream. The blue-tinted room danced before her eyes, moving in circles. In her haze, all she could think to do was …  _ write to Sansa _ . She had been avoiding it for a moon, but suddenly she felt that she must as fear filled her and a chill touched her skin. 

_ Slow and steady _ , she told herself as she stood from the bed, her knees and arms slightly shaking.  _ Am I dying _ ? She thought as she stepped lightly towards the wardrobe and pulled out a large gray cloak.  _ This was father’s _ , she thought as she brought it over her head, losing her vision for half a second.  _ Slow and steady _ , she repeated. She could hear the fierce waters crash against the castle walls as she very gently tied her belt under her stomach, her fingers shook as she picked up Needle and placed it on her side.  _ Light as a feather _ , she recited in her head as she stepped forward, step by step, not making a sound, powering through a potential collapse. 

She moved towards the door, Amiria’s sleepy breath playing like a calm song. Arya steadied herself with the walls as she reached the door and carefully crept it open, sliding out as she held onto it, keeping her balance in tact. When she shut the door quietly, the corridors’ silence rang in her ears. She held on to the walls as she stepped towards the library, step by step. It hadn’t been too far, but in her state, the short journey was agonizing and time-consuming. Candles and torches still lit the passageways. Arya hoped she would not run into anyone. As she walked she felt the castle walls pulsate against her palms. _ Am I dreaming _ ? It made her shiver more than she had already been shivering. 

… 

_ Sansa, _

_ I do not wish to burden you or Bran, but I am afraid. My health suffers and my thoughts and heart trouble me. My soul yearns for the North even if it might not yearn for me. I worry for the child that grows inside of me. And although I trust Lord Baratheon with my life, I cannot leave the child with him in the south. I worry that I put Gendry at risk with my follies and my bastard. The dishonorable fornication was my own notion, and it is my burden, and mine only, to carry. I wish to return home with the babe when she is born.  _

_ I do not feel safe here any longer. Winterfell is just as much my home as it is yours, I have come to realize that now. I’m sorry it cannot be as you wanted, I’m sorry I am a difficult sister, but I am afraid I cannot see it any other way. I hope you have forgiven me by the time I’ve made it home. And remember, dear sister, that the Northern men are not like those of the south. Believe in our men, they will stand by us, even if we’re only women. I hope to see you again soon, Sansa. _

_ Arya _

  
  


Arya’s left-hand shook as she dropped the metal pen at once, drops of ink splattering on the scroll. She shakingly picked up the parchment and blew on it as she began to roll it up. It seemed almost a miracle that she managed to get to the study, and write a letter. Still her vision was slightly blurred, she was drenched in sweat, and felt last night’s meager supper rushing up to her throat. Arya stamped the scroll with House Stark’s fierce direwolf, and stood, the room spinning faster when she did.  _ Slow and Steady _ . 

She steadied herself with the hard wooden table she wrote the scroll in, when she reached the books she then steadied herself with the bookshelves, and then with the walls, and the other ancient tables of hardwood. She heard the shrill cawing of the ravens as she finally made her way to them. She leaned on the window where they sat tall in a perch. She searched for the one marked for Winterfell, tied the scroll to it, and sent the big dark bird on its way, feeling a little bit of relief as she saw it fly off into the morning sky through the window.

The sky was brighter than it was when she had awoken that morning. She knew the castle was about to arise at any moment now. The thought filled her with anxiety for some reason, she hoped to reach her chambers without running into anyone. She placed her hand on her stomach and as soon as she did, she felt the child kick, and for a second she had forgotten why she was scared. A smile broke into her hysterical exhausted face as she retraced her delicate and careful steps once more. She happened to make it to the corridors standing. 

…

The hallways darkened almost suddenly, Arya recalled after nearly making it to her chambers. Through the tall windows it seemed like the clouds had eaten the bright morning sun whole, and filled the sky in the Stormland grays. Luckily, she had not bumped into a soul, although the further she walked, the more she contemplated seeing Maester Jurne. She fought against it,  _ it was probably nothing _ , she thought letting her stubbornness win.  _ I just need some rest _ , she assured herself as she kept walking forth, as slow as a tortoise, her chest practically beating out of her chest. 

She could hear the echoes of quiet footsteps close. At first, she thought they were only her own and that she was afraid over nothing, but when she stopped, she heard them once more. The footsteps sounded strange, almost like someone was walking on the tips of their toes. Arya looked back and saw nothing but the long dark hallway, and for several moments she heard nothing. She continued her walk again, both her palms dragging over the walls. The fire crackled from the torches, and for a second she thought she heard thunder, but she must have been mistaken, she hadn’t heard that sound in _weeks_. 

Terror filled her all of a sudden.  _ Am I dreaming? Is this a nightmare? _ She stopped and the footsteps stopped, and then she stepped and the footsteps presumed. The footsteps were so quiet and careful it was a surprise that she could hear them at all. Whoever was there did not want to be seen or heard. Arya pushed herself to a faster pace, going faster, and faster, and quicker and quicker, until she was almost running. Her bones filled with adrenaline as she hurried, still half-holding the wall beside her, the strange steps behind her also becoming quicker. Arya felt like the walls were spinning in circles, her sweat was soaking through her cloak. When the rounded corridors finally ended, she turned a corner and hid in the first opening she could.

The opening was a closet of sorts. It was filled with wooden buckets, sponges, and brushes for scrubbing. She pressed her back against the stonewall, her breath short. She was seconds from fainting, she knew, but still she fought through. She pulled out Needle from its scabbard and held it out, standing side-face, the steel shaking in her left-hand. She bit her lip hard as the footsteps drew closer and closer. She shut her eyes tightly as she waited for the stranger behind the eerie footsteps to appear before her. She waited there, waiting to strike, step after agonizing step. 

Even though she was fully expecting someone, she gasped in surprise still when a body appeared before her. She instantly pointed Needle in the stranger’s face, inches from the person’s right eye. She breathed harshly, as things started to slowly make more sense, and the world normalized a little around her. 

“ _ Easy, easy _ , Princess. It’s only me.” Bronze hair, green eyes, and a pretty face followed the voice. It was Elwood, Elwood Meadows.

She slowly lowered Needle, anger and confusion filling her thoughts. “What is wrong with you?!” She did not know if the question was meant for Elwood or if it was meant for her. Seconds ago, she was so sure she was in the grips of death, but it was only Elwood all along. 

“I’m sorry! I didn't mean to scare you, princess. _Honest_.” He was in a black cloak this time, but his jerkin was green still. He looked as he always looked, he had his longsword on his left and a fancy curved dagger on his right. He stood there, almost cockily, his posture almost perfect. 

“Why are you following me?” Arya asked fiercely but her voice came out in a humiliating croak. “You don’t belong in these halls.” She stepped forward defensively. “_Off_ you go.” 

The young man did not respond right away. He paused, taking a moment to observe her. She only realized now how mad she must look to him. Her hair was a tangled mess from twisting and turning all night. She was in a thin nightgown, nothing covering her but her father’s old cloak. Her eyes must’ve been dark and full of bags from her restlessness, her lips blue and dry, her face wet with her cold sweats. She _must_ look like a corpse, she thought as she leaned on the walls once more, she surely _felt_ like a corpse. 

“Are you alright? Do you need me to call the Maester?” He asked him eyes growing wider the more he looked upon her. 

“No.” Arya snapped. 

“You look like you’re ill. Do you know that? You don’t look like yourself _at all_.” He answered, almost rudely. 

Arya threw him a cold face. She wanted him to go away, she knew she couldn’t walk the castle in the manner she was with Elwood’s worried eyes watching her, _pitying_ her. 

“I’m _sorry_, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“But you  _ did _ ,” Arya spat just wanting to be rid of the bloody fool. 

“I didn’t mean to,” he repeated pathetically.

“What do you want? Why did you follow me?” She asked again fiercely, again her voice nowhere near as forceful as she intended. 

“I wanted to speak to you, on some matters. If it please you, princess.” He asked softly, scanning her appearance once more. Arya shuddered in discomfort, the walls, and the young man’s face still spinning in circles before her, making her dizzy. She swallowed hard, attempting to keep down the vile threatening to come gushing out of her mouth. 

“Make it quick, Lord Meadows. I’ve places to be.” She looked down, still too embarrassed to look at him directly in the eyes. She also wondered how much longer she could stay standing. She gripped needle tighter, trying to hold on, trying not to collapse and make an utter fool of herself next to this man once more. 

His voice dropped lower as he looked around the corridors, and leaned into Arya. “I don’t-I don’t think you should let  _ him _ , _Lord Baratheon_, talk you into such things.” 

“Pardon me, Lord Meadows?” Arya was taken aback, “Are you completely mad?” 

“No. I’m not mad at all. You’re a princess, not just some whore!” He whispered, much to excited. Arya could not read the situation properly. She stood there, trying to gather her thoughts. Maybe she was still dreaming after all. 

Arya rubbed her trembling fingers over her forehead, her head still pounding. She just wanted to go to bed, to lay down and close her eyes. It’s all she wanted, why must the Gods torture her so? 

“I’m afraid that is no concern of yours. And that’s all I’ve got to say in the matter, Lord Meadows.” She stepped forward, out of the opening, attempting hard to walk normally, one foot over the other, her right hand still planted on the wall beside her. She walked away from the young man, turning her head slightly. “Is that all?” She asked attempting to dismiss him once and for all. 

“What he does with you, he’ll do with _her_.” She froze. “With Lady Alynne. They are to marry, it’s why she’s here.” Arya frowned, her grip on needle tightening once more. 

“You don’t know as much as you _think_ you know.” Arya replied sinisterly. “Gendry would never marry _her. _You don’t _know_ him.” 

“I know a lot more than you think.” 

Arya rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Keep the things you think you know to yourself,” Arya snarked. “I don’t care to hear them.” Her vision was beginning to become consumed by little white stars. She turned again and continued walking forth, putting all her focus into appearing _normal, _as if _nothing_ were wrong. 

“He was seeking you, last night.” The man’s voice echoed. “But I suppose when he couldn’t have you for the night, he sought after another.” 

Arya turned again, this time anger possessed her. She felt the ice inside her, she could feel the coldness radiating off her. 

“I saw the Lady Alynne leave his chambers at dawn. I  _ saw _ her.”

“Shut up.” Arya said, her grip on Needle was so hard her hand and the sword began to vibrate uncontrollably. 

“He’s Robert Baratheon’s son, whoring is in his blood.” 

“Is that how you speak of your lord, you treacherous leech! He’s good to you! To all of you!” Arya shouted, much too loudly. She did not like people speaking ill of Gendry, sometimes she’d do it, but she never truly meant any of it, not at all. It was _different_. 

The young man looked taken aback, his face turned red as he brought his finger over his mouth, ran towards Arya and shushed her. He stuttered trying to find the words he wished to say without upsetting the she-wolf much more. He shook his head, a slight panic present in his expression. 

“The last thing I wanted was to upset you,” he whispered. “I only tell you these things because I see you as a friend, and I want justice for you, princess.” Arya planted her back on the wall, and leaned her head back. She was going to go under, she was sure now, it was time she accepted it. 

“_If_ you’re a friend. Why do you wish to upset me so?” Arya asked lethargically, as she sighed and her eyes began to close. Her thoughts went to Gendry, surely whatever Elwood saw was nothing but a misunderstanding. He didn’t know Gendry, as she did. _Not even close._

“I do not wish to upset you. I only offer the truth, it’s _all_ I  can offer you.”

“I don’t want anything from you, Elwood.” Arya responded defeated. 

“I only meant to-”

“-I don’t care.”

Elwood backed off, slightly defeated. “ _ Just _ ... be weary of the Connington girl. And her brother. _Please_.”

“Why? In case they’re as treacherous and deceitful as you?” 

“_Precisely_,” Elwood responded, pausing before stepping forward instead of back. Arya opened her eyes and saw that the man had inched closer to her, rather close actually, he stared upon her face. “You’re a threat to them,” he said in a whisper so low, it sounded as if he were talking to himself. Perhaps he had been. 

Arya saw his eyes widen as her world turned black in flashes. Black flashes, and then white flashes. A piercingly loud clack erupted from the skies. It rumbled, and rumbled, and then cracked again. She felt the young man’s fingers grab onto her arm. She felt her eyes begin to roll back behind her head. “_Princess?_ _ Oh no _ .” Arya felt her fingers release her sword on their own accord. _“Princess?”_ The sound of steel hitting the floor clashed with the sounds of the thunder. Then she finally collapsed, first dropping to her knees, and then dropping on her side, and straight onto the floor. _“Princess!”_


	7. The Trials of Love

Gendry 

Gendry watched the storm from the tall windows of the Guardroom, slightly disoriented. He spoke with Ser Gilbert Farring, or rather the husky castellan spoke to him. Lightning struck as the wind howled loudly, and thunder cracked fiercely. He could hear the ocean and the waves crashing. Weeks had passed since it rained, let alone stormed. The storming had returned to Storm’s End with a fury. 

Ser Gilbert was in full armor. His squire, Steffon, a green boy of no more than two-and-ten standing rigidly beside him. Ser Gilbert’s greatsword was being held up in his squire’s small hands. Gendry could not make out  _ all _ the words the knight spewed, but he had heard that grains and medicine were being sent out all throughout the Stormlands, but that expenses were not sufficient for Arbor Golds, Dornish Reds, exotic spices, lavish feasts, or for  _ any _ festivities. “Might sound frivolous  _ to you _ , my lord. But it  _ could _ be disastrous, if say, the King were to visit. Your grace wouldn’t be happy dining on potato stews and nettle tea. I’d argue, in most instances, offending a king is a far greater crime than having  _ some _ commoners go hungry.” 

Gendry only scoffed at that, making a sour face. “Not even close.” Kissing Bran Stark’s arse was no priority of his,  _ king or no king _ . Besides, he doubted the young man was as piggish as the kings who came before him. Arya Stark spoke nothing but kind words for her younger brother, perhaps that was just Arya’s biased opinion, but she seldom spoke so highly of her sister Sansa now that Gendry thought about it, though she never spoke ill of her sister either _ . _

Gendry got lost in the storm again. The sky was a dark gray. Torches and candles lit the room despite it only being the afternoon. He could only hear the knight speaking in mumbles, and could not make out any real sentences anymore. He thought about Arya, for the last few days, it was almost  _ all _ he thought about. She had grown sick again, sicker than before. The thought haunted him, he wondered what had gone wrong. She had been running, laughing, training,  _ making love to him _ , and now … Perhaps, it was his fault for filling her with his seed, for forcing her to leave Winterfell once more, especially when she had fought so hard to return home.

He tried to see her in her bed chambers, but she refused him. Shouted at him to,  _ “get out,” _ and to  _ “leave me be.” _ He wanted to see her, more than anything, but he knew she did not want to be pitied by him. In a way he understood how she must have felt, but still, he wondered if she truly wanted him to leave. Arya said things she did not mean all the time, especially if said things protected her from being vulnerable. He decided that he would at least try to see her again. 

“Pardon me, Ser, but I won’t have any sort of change of heart on the matter.” Gendry said stubbornly. He nodded once, ready to retire, as he looked straight into the castellan’s scarred face. 

Gendry caught the hefty dark-bearded knight smile, just slightly. Gendry did not know what the smile meant, didn’t know if it meant he was secretly angry, or mischievous, or perhaps even proud. After brief thought, Gendry realized he did not care much what the man thought of him, so with that, he turned to walk away. He heard Ser Gilbert and Steffon call out, “ _ my lord _ ,” they both said it in unison, the sound of armor clacking as they shifted to bow. 

The storm roared behind Gendry as he strutted out of the vast cobblestone room. His footsteps echoed as he paced forward, his stomach was in knots. 

…

Gendry dragged the heavy warhammer against the floor as he paced forward, his clothes were soaked, and his boots were squeaking with every step he took. On his way towards Arya’s chambers, he had found himself in the courtyard instead. The storm hadn’t calmed, and the winds and waters were so ferocious that Gendry could hardly see a thing outside. But that had been alright, because that meant that not a soul, not a guard, nor a pretty master-at-arms would be outside to pester him about  _ this or that _ . 

When Gendry had destroyed all the well-constructed straw men in the courtyard with the ends of his hammer, he looked for other things to tear apart. He removed his cloak, the heaviness from its drenched state pulling his down, and making him slower. As he moved towards the walls of the yard, he found nothing to ravage, except some empty wooden barrels, and the stone wall beside him. He tore apart the barrels as the bold winds pushed him as he did, small pieces of wood flying all around him as his grunts, the water crashing against the stone, and sharp thunder sounded overhead. He told himself he did not know why he was  _ so _ angry, Arya’s health would surely improve as it once had, and just because she had been with Elwood when she collapsed did not imply that they had been growing closer, or that they had even been friends. 

When Gendry returned inside the castle, his arms were so numb they trembled. He dragged his hammer as a way to not feel its weight so palpably. His hands vibrated as the hammer scraped harshly against the floor. He could hear the sky’s hard rumbling from inside the corridors. The tall windows flashed with quick bright lights of whites and blues. Gendry still could not shift his body, make it turn towards Arya’s chambers. As hard as he tried, his mind would not let him, he wasn’t so sure he truly wanted to see her. He did not know if he was more afraid of seeing her, as ill as the people in the castle had whispered she was, or if he was more afraid of her not wanting to see him again, five days later. He knew that her defensive words were not sincere, yet he obeyed them, and he planned to obey them until he could muster the courage not to. 

…

Gendry felt the sweat leak from his forehead as he trotted off, towards the Maester’s solar, climbing up the steep steps one by one, his steps loud and strident. He had changed into some dry clothes; a simple tunic, brown breeches, and boots — the type of attire he would have worn to the forge. But on his way to the hot dark quarters, something happened. He obtained courage, at least  _ some _ . Although, it was not enough courage to go and see Arya, it was at least enough courage to speak to Maester Jurne about the condition of her health. At first, Gendry thought the maester would give him some words of reassurance, or perhaps even suggest that the situation wasn’t as dire as Gendry had initially thought. But it had, unfortunately, been much worse than that. 

Gendry entered the Maester’s solar. It was at least the third time that Gendry had checked inside to see if he was there, it seemed as of lately, that most of the older man’s time was spent in Arya’s chambers. She was a princess after all, her health was more important than the health of any of the commoners, the soldiers, the knights. That had been the sad truth, perhaps just not  _ his _ sad truth any longer. This was the only time Gendry felt relief and comfort in Arya’s noble blood, any other day he would’ve almost shamed her for it. 

“Maester,” he called out as he stood there, leaning on the maester’s door, waiting to be invited inside. The man was hunched over at his table reading a book with strange large spectacles that made his eyes look as if they were bulging out. His chains rattled as they hit the wooden table. The maester did not like being disrupted, he ignored Gendry, until Gendry decided to invite himself in. 

“Are you losing your hearing already, maester?” Gendry asked rudely. Maester Jurne removed his spectacles without looking towards Gendry, carefully placing them on the table with his long fingers, and placing a red thin bookmark on his page before closing the heavy book. With that, he turned in his chair and averted his attention towards Gendry. 

“My lord,” he said with a nod, slight annoyance in his tone. 

Gendry moved towards the vast room. The maester’s solar contained hundreds of books, though there had been nowhere near as many as there were in the study. There was a huge shelf of dark wood filled with potions, and medicines of sorts. They were shielded by thick glass, as well as a heavy steel padlock keeping it shut and guarded. On the other side of the quarters, there were flat cots. It smelled of blood, rotting flesh, and alcohol; the scents of death. 

Gendry leaned on the table the maester was reading on. He could hear the sounds of coughing and wheezing from the opposite sides of the quarters. The maester looked tired, under his eyes he was puffy and red. His hair looked grayer, and more unkempt. His dark yellow robes had patches of blood scattered all over. Gendry wondered whose blood that had been. 

“Arya?” Gendry asked. “How is she?” 

The man folded his hands before him and looked Gendry straight into his icy blue eyes. “I am afraid she is not getting better.” The words felt like knives to Gendry. “Though, the princess is awfully strong. She is rather willful, and I have always said —  _ the mind is a powerful thing _ . It truly is the portal to miracles.” 

“Miracles?” Gendry spat. “Why are you speaking to me of miracles, maester?” 

The older man shot Gendry a face, unable to answer his question, he only stood before Gendry, standing almost as tall as him. Gendry’s eyes observed the man’s worried expression, and as he did, he felt his heart sink, and his fists tightening by his sides. “I am afraid this might go beyond the princess’s own health, my lord. She is young, much too young to be  _ so _ ill, still she fights-”

“-What are you suggesting?” Gendry interrupted meanly.

The Maester sighed deeply, looking from his hands to Gendry, clearly uneasy. “Nightshade,” he said, “but I cannot be completely certain.” 

“ _ Nightshade _ ?” It took a while for it all to register in his mind, his eyes widened when he did. Gendry stood tall and began to pace the room at once. He shook his head in denial, refusing to accept such an absurdity. He could hear the sounds of the storm once more. “How can you be sure?” 

“I said I  _ cannot _ be completely certain, my lord.” 

“Then perhaps you’re wrong.”

“Then perhaps  _ I am wrong _ ,” the maester agreed calmly. “I truly hope that I am. But ‘tis a common poison, my lord. I have studied its properties extensively before and-”

“-Fuck!” Gendry’s voice erupted powerfully with a loud echo, the sounds of coughing and wheezing ceased at once, the sounds of the storm dulled. The maester stepped back carefully, while Gendry stepped forward menacingly. “There must be  _ some _ type of antidote!  _ You’re _ the healer!” 

“I am afraid-”

“-Say something else!” Gendry shouted as he turned sharply, and shoved the heavy wooden table as it scraped against the stone floor and went crashing on its side, books, pens, and the maester’s spectacles all crashing to the floor. The Maester scowled at Gendry. Gendry plopped down on the floor, his blood boiling inside him, hate filling him to the brim. He shut his eyes tightly, his palms planted on forehead as he sat there, on the floor, attempting to not physically destroy everything in sight. 

“I warned you of this,” the older man stated bravely as he watched Gendry in distress. Gendry only looked at him closely, his face red from how hard he had rubbed it. His hands tightened into fists again as the old man looked down on him. “I advised you not to parade Arya Stark around. The vile whispers that-”

“-you told me not to underestimate my own power,” Gendry said carefully as he stood slowly, his anger still pounding inside him. He carefully walked towards the maester. “And  _ now _ … where  _ is _ this power, now that I truly need it?” 

“... Can I be candid with you, my lord?”

“ _ Please _ !”

“You have put the princess in danger with your follies, games, and bad judgement. Someone in this castle has tried to hurt her, because of  _ you _ , my lord. I advise you exert that power to find who is responsible. Perhaps  _ they _ can give you the answers you seek from me.” 

“I don’t want bloody  _ answers _ , I want her as she was, maester.” Gendry shouted as he stood before the man. Maester Jurne was now looking down on the ground, unable to speak of these matters with Gendry any longer.

“Pardon me, my lord” the maester said as he excused himself from a fuming Gendry, brushing past him. “I have matters to attend to.” Gendry’s breath became shorter as the sounds of the room completely silenced. 

“Who would you suspect, Maester?  _ Please _ ...  _ help me _ .”

When the man reached the door, he looked back towards his lord, his steps were slow, he looked restless. “I am only a maester,” he said before disappearing behind the heavy door. 

Gendry’s breath became even shorter than it had before. He closed his eyes tightly, attempting to tame his rage, attempting to think sharply, and to not allow his emotions to consume him so. He wanted  _ her _ there with him now, to soothe him and make him smile. He wanted  _ her _ , her energetic self, her wild self,  _ his _ she-wolf.  _ Nightshade _ , he thought. Then he thought of the maester’s words, “ _ I advise you exert that power to find who is responsible _ .”

The sound of glass shattering clashed in his eardrums. When he opened his eyes, he found that his fist had broken into the glass screen of the maester’s medicines. Blood seeped down from his knuckles to his arm in a slow stream, drops of blood dripping onto the floor. At first, he felt no pain, just blood and more blood. When the harsh stinging sensation struck him all at once, and the pain came flooding in, he found comfort in it. 

…

Gendry wasn’t sure how long he had been sitting there, in the corner of the solar. Most of the blood on his arm became hard, but there were still a couple of gashes that kept on bleeding, although the thick red liquid was no longer oozing out as heavily as it originally had. He tensed his injured right-hand, it was especially sore, a great deal more than it was earlier when he had been ravaging every item in sight with his hammer. He decided it was time, time to clean out his wounds and face Arya head-on, he could not avoid her forever. 

He stood at once, his legs feeling numb from sitting on the floor in such an uncomfortable position. He planned on removing his tunic and tying it over his gory hand and arm, and carrying on to Arya’s chambers just like that. Except he did not get the chance. As soon as he stood, he heard footsteps coming from the steep stairs, they were light and graceful. They certainly weren’t the maester’s footsteps, that much he knew. He waited behind the door, hoping whoever it was would not see him and flee, but alas, he was not so lucky. 

A head peaked inside the room. It was a woman with red hair and pale freckled-skin. She wore a modest golden gown. Gendry shut his eyes at the sight of her, he sighed deeply at the thought that if he had only left several moments earlier, he would’ve completely avoided her. It seemed as of lately, she had been especially tenacious with having his complete attention. 

“ _ Fuck’s sake _ .” He mumbled.

Alynne pretended she had not heard him as she entered the chambers gently, her hands folded over her stomach. She looked up at Gendry, quickly scanning the room as she moved forward slowly. He saw her eyes going to the broken glass, then the table, and then his bloodstained arm. 

“Oh, Gods.” She said as she moved towards Gendry. She extended her elegant hands out to him, and as soon as she did, Gendry pulled back defensively, anger still burning inside him. His suspicions had suddenly ignited at the sight of her.  _ Could she have have hurt, Arya?  _ He asked himself. He couldn’t be sure. As far as he knew, everyone in the castle was a suspect,  _ especially _ the Conningtons.

“Leave it!” He snapped. “What are you doing in here anyway? Can’t a man be left in peace?”

Alynne looked at him sadly, she only shook her head at his question. “The maester sent me.” She said softly as she stepped forward again, her eyes immersed in his injured limb. “The princess … she was asking for you.” 

Gendry felt his muscles relax, just slightly. He wondered why Alynne had been in Arya’s chambers, or how the maester had even known Gendry was still in his solar. Why could they not have sent a guard, or perhaps even little Amiria Snow? 

Something about Alynne made him feel rotten and false. They had only kissed once, and even then, it had been her doing, her insistence. But then she had sunk her long fingers down his breeches, and for a moment, he had let her. The thought filled him with guilt. He remembered grabbing her wrist, and pulling her out forcefully. She had squealed in pain from his grip. He felt shameful and quite embarrassed about the entire situation. He blamed himself for allowing her into his chambers in the first place. Even then, it hadn’t been the only time the girl had found a way inside. 

“How is she?” He asked, a little less discouraged. “What has she been saying?” 

“You should go and see for yourself, my lord.” Alynne responded as she went to grab Gendry’s arm once more. “But perhaps we should tend to your wounds first. They look quite ghastly.” She said as her eyes widened.

Gendry pulled his arm back again, away from the young woman. She looked up at him defeated. She frowned wistfully, bringing her hands back, folding them up to her chest. 

“Very well then, I’ll go find Maester Jurne.” She said as she looked past him quickly. She almost seemed like she was on the verge of tears as she paced off.

“Leave the maester alone,” Gendry called out stubbornly recalling his tense encounter with the old man. “She needs him more than I do.” 

Alynne turned from the door, her pale blue eyes meeting with his deep blues. “Then let me help,” she insisted again. “ _ Please _ , I  _ want _ to help.”

Gendry gave her no straight answer, still she moved towards him, placing her hand on his arm. He didn’t wince away any longer. He only looked off to the side as he felt her observe his arm closely. She lifted his arm with her palms extending it forward. Gendry flinched in pain. She apologized and continued to examine him. He wondered if she knew what she was doing, he wanted nothing more than to have this over and done with. It hadn’t taken him long to grow impatient with her soft and slow mannerisms.

“Would you get on with it?” Gendry pleaded. 

“I’m sorry, I was just looking for-”

“-Nevermind it. I’ll do it.” Gendry lightly pushed her aside as he went looking for Myrish fire  _ or _ firemilk in the Maester’s inventory.  _ It was lucky he had broken the glass guarding the potions _ , he joked to himself miserably. He could hear the storm outside once more, for a while he had not noticed it. There had been hundreds of different potions, and the labels were hard to read. The letters were small, one label had taken him ages to read. He twitched impatiently. He looked back towards Alynne and she watched him, her eyes red and full of sorrow. “ _ Could you _ -_the firemilk_-”

She nodded and walked past him. She found the pale red substance almost instantly. She reached for it carefully so as not to cut herself on the remaining broken glass. She placed it in his non-dominant hand, her fingers brushing against him palm. “ _ Thank you _ ,” he said rudely. 

…

Alynne was not someone who was put off by his bluntness, or his impolite nature, or rather she let on that she wasn’t. Half the time they interacted, she had been either on the verge of tears or fully crying. Gendry washed off his coated bloodstained arm with warm water first. Alynne fetched him the water from a brass basin, as well as a long linen gauze. Beyond that, Gendry refused any more of her  _ help _ . He could see minuscule pieces of glass fall into the water as he rubbed his arm clean carefully, wincing at the harsh stinging sensation. He could feel the girl watching him from behind. 

“You can go now, Lady Alynne.” He spat. 

“Yes, my lord, as you wish.” She said pleasantly, as she turned quickly to flee, but something had stopped her.  _ A sinister force, perhaps _ , Gendry thought. He sighed when he heard her stop at once. She breathed sharply, it was evident to Gendry that she had something to say. 

Gendry opened the bottle of firemilk as he prepared to have to hear one of her sad little speeches again. The morning Arya fell sick, she had been in his chambers, with tears in her eyes begging him not to send her back to Griffin’s Roost. The thought filled him with dread. He poured the red ointment on his arm as he squinched up in pain, feeling the burning sensation seeping through his gashes. He bit his lip so hard, he tasted blood.

“I apologize for  _ that _ morning. I did not mean to- _ I mean _ -I was full of fear. My brother ... he is not … he is not  _ good  _ to me, you see. I only felt …  _ hopeless _ , my lord. I would never … try to tear you away from the one you love,  _ even _ if I could.” 

Gendry could hear the coughing sounds from the other sides of the room again, as well as some light snoring. His fist trembled violently as the burning sensation persisted, though slowly it had begun to dull,  _ much too slowly _ . He quickly unraveled the gauze, using his teeth to unravel the bandage, fumbling with it in his left hand. 

“How much does the notion that it’s  _ not _ you, disturb you?” Gendry asked. “In your entire life, have you ever  _ not _ gotten something you wanted? Have you  _ ever _ _not_ had a man kissing at your feet?” Gendry still had his back to the young woman, unable to study her face. He then attempted to wrap the linen over part of his hand and arm, he worked hastily and brashly. He only had his left-hand and chin to work with, it made the task all the more difficult. 

“I am  _ not _ disturbed.” She proclaimed. “ _ At all _ .” He heard her step closer as he wrapped the gauze tighter. “The princess is  _ my _ friend. I can see what you see in her.  _ How _ can I be disturbed by love of all things? What do you take me for, my lord?” Gendry finally finished, he stood as he tied the cloth with his teeth and shaky fingers. He felt the tightness of the binding against his skin. It still stung a great deal, and some blood had already begun to seep into the gauze. He ignored it, he figured he had done a well enough job. 

When Gendry turned he was face to face with the red-headed girl. She stared at him intensely. He stood his ground, looking back at her coldly. 

“So have you? Ever not gotten something you wanted?  _ Someone _ you  _ truly _ wanted?” Gendry asked suggestively. 

Alynne stayed quiet, her mouth ajar. It took her awhile to come up with her answer. In her hesitation, Gendry had gotten his true answer, but still she had answered. “You do not truly know what it is like to love someone who does not love you in return.” Her eyes were red, and her lip quivered. “Perhaps you do,  _ partly _ ,  _ but not entirely _ .” Saltwater streamed down from her eyes, to her cheeks, to her neck. “It seems we’re always drawn to those we should not be drawn to. People who cannot  _ fully _ love us.” 

Gendry wondered what Alynne had implied by that. Did she mean to say that Arya hadn’t fully loved him? Because  _ he knew _ Arya could not fully love him, at least he thought he knew. He was a stupid lowborn bastard from Flea Bottom after all. And although Alynne’s words were nothing necessarily new to him, they still filled him with sorrow. He shook his head and walked past the girl, turning over his shoulder. She turned to watch him leave, her lips tightly pressed together, and her hands in tight fists at her sides. 

“She was poisoned, Alynne.” The second he said it, he knew he had made it all the more real. Suddenly he was full of fury once more. “If I find out you had  _ anything _ to do with it, I’ll hurt  _ you _ .” 

Alynne’s lip quivered. She shook her head as her tears continued to fall down her face. “You’re cruel to even  _ suggest _ such a thing.  _ Cruel _ .” She stormed off all of a sudden, crashing into his shoulder as she passed him. Gendry watched her run off. He then waited for her steps to fade before finally exiting the room as well. His heart raced as he walked towards the steep steps, his stomach felt so brutal that he could not feel the pain or soreness from his arm any longer. 

…

Gendry stood by Arya’s door. It was nearly supper time and the corridors had already grown dark. The torches that were hung on the wall lit the narrow pathways. Lightning flashed every so often. He leaned his forehead on the heavy wooden door, and as he did, the door creaked as it inched open slightly. He froze as his presence was quickly revealed. He could hear Amiria’s loud footsteps as she came sprinting towards the door. In an instant, the door flew open before him and there it all was. 

Amiria stood before him, her long brown hair was a mess. Beneath her brown eyes were dark circles. She was in a gray rugged tunic, a plain sleeveless dress over it. She looked as if she were in shambles. She pulled Gendry inside the room with one hard yank, luckily she yanked his left arm while her eyes studied his injury. “What happened, my lord?” She asked speaking rapidly, as she so often did. She kept pulling him along. “Nevermind that! She wanted to see you.” She whispered loudly. The room was warm, much too warm. Candles were lit all around, and the fireplace was burning, there was a basin full of boiling water on the table beside the bed.

“Maester Jurne stepped out momentarily. Speak to her, I know she wishes to speak to you.” Alynne almost pushed him towards the bed, her movements a bit too hyperactive. He sat at the empty space on Arya’s bed. She was laying on her back, a wet towel on her forehead. Her lips looked slightly blue, and her face looked skinnier. She wore a thin gray sleeping gown, her swollen belly appearing bigger than he remembered, even under the yellow linens. “You waited much too long to see her,” Amiria stated bravely. Gendry saw something he never saw in the small girl before: anger.  _ She was right to be angry _ , Gendry thought. 

“I’ll be having my supper now, if that’s alright?” Amiria asked, exhaustion in her eyes. Gendry nodded as he averted his attention to Arya, guilt washed over him the more he observed her. “I’ll bring her supper up in a little while, my lord.” Amiria said as she stomped towards the door, in her obnoxiously loud steps. He wondered how someone so small and skinny could be so loud. “Take care of her while I’m gone.” She said, slamming the door closed.

Arya’s big gray eyes opened in surprise at the sound of the slamming door. Her chest suddenly becoming active. Gendry touched her shoulder to calm her, but still her short breath continued. Her skinny fingers went to her stomach almost protectively as her eyes found Gendry. At first, neither of them said a word. Arya’s rapid exhaling soon slowed at the sight of him. He studied her once more. Her hair was in a messy side braid, and her eyes looked wet and panicked. He expected her to be angry with him, but it seemed as if she did not even have enough energy for that. The thought made him bitter.

“I said I didn’t want to see you.” She said in a hazy-sounding croak, as she removed the towel from her forehead and flung it aside. It fell down to the floor with a ‘splat.’ 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry I listened.” 

Silence fell in the room. For a while they just listened to the storm and the fire crackling together. He removed his boots as he leaned in closer to her. Arya’s wandering fingers went to seek his. He sat beside her and intertwined their fingers, attempting to hide his injured hand from her. Her eyes met his, they were dull and only half-open.  _ She wasn’t herself _ , he thought at once. It was only when he saw her that he realized that the maester was right, she was not getting  _ any _ better. 

“I’m sorry too,” Arya said dully after a while. “I didn’t want you to leave that day. Not truly. And I’ve been hiding things from you.  _ Lots of things _ . And I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded lifeless. Gendry wondered what _things_ she had been hiding from him, and he wondered how much longer he could bear to see her this way. He wasn’t sure he could say or ask anything in the moment. He felt as if something were caught inside his throat. 

“What happened ... to your arm?” She asked, barely audible, her eyes fighting to stay open. She had noticed after all. Gendry placed his arm on his lap defeatedly, as she let go of his left-hand to caresses the binding from his right-hand lightly. With her other hand, she continued to stroke her stomach. Gendry did not answer her question, only shook his head, shrugged and smiled sadly. 

“ _ Stupid bull _ ....” She mumbled. He bit the inside of his cheek while he watched her fingers trace over his arm. She pulled his stinging arm forward, with both her hands, pulling it towards her face. Her hands trembled as she held the terribly wrapped arm before her. Gendry relieved some of the weight from his arm as she held it. She leaned forward, and kissed it, long and tenderly. 

Gendry slid down on the bed, he positioned himself on his side. At once he could feel the heat radiating off of her body. The bed and the linens felt hot too. He felt a drop of sweat trickle down from his forehead already. He wanted to be rid of his tunic, but he left it on in case the maester or Amiria found their way back into her chambers. She turned on her side too, much too slowly, and much too weakly. They faced each other. Their hands finding the other’s hands and clinging tightly. Gendry felt how much she shivered when he held onto her hands. 

Arya looked half-asleep, her eyelids looked heavy whenever she blinked. Even half-conscious and pale, she looked sublime to him.  _ Nothing could make her look plain or even ugly, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known _ , he thought as he pushed away a loose strand of her hair, away from her face and over her ear. She watched him carefully. Her grip on his hands were feeble. 

“I’m afraid,” she confessed suddenly. 

“I am too.” 

“I’m holding on as hard as I can.” A single tear leaked out of her eyes, it ran down her cheek and onto the bed. “I’m trying to be brave. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid _for_ _ her _ .” One of her hands went down to her belly. She stretched out her fingers over it protectively. “The kicks grow weaker, and even then, I don’t feel them much anymore.  _ She’s afraid too _ .” 

“She shouldn’t be afraid, not with a mother like you.” He said it in a croak, his chest pounding as he did. He held on tighter to her cold hands. She wasn’t looking at him any longer. He watched her as her eyes pointed down. Her eyes began to cloud and redden. She held back her tears, probably thinking that releasing them would indicate more weakness. Gendry knew that that could not be further from the truth, she had been brave enough already. 

“Gendry.” His name sounded sweet when she said it. She was perhaps the only person that called him by his name. Her and Ser Davos, but the name did not sound nearly as sweet coming from the Onion Knight. “Do you …  _ love _ _me_?  _ Truly? _ More than just a friend … more than just ... _a lover_?” 

He observed her face, and saw that the tears could not be held back any longer. He knew the question was not just a question. He did love her, in his own way, the only way he knew how to love anyone. Perhaps they did not have the same notions of love, still it did not make the love any less real. He did not answer the question, almost completely aware of what she was about to ask of him. 

“In the birthing bed.  _ If _ it comes to me or her-”

“-Is that why you ask me of love?” He snapped. “To ask this impossible thing of me?” He was deeply offended. 

“Gendry,” she argued weakly, “she’s  _ yours _ too.” 

Gendry’s throat tightened, he shook his head. He was sure now that the anguish he felt was visible on his face. “It won’t come to that,” is all he could say. 

“But  _ if _ it does.” 

“It won’t.” Gendry stated stubbornly. 

“Gendry.” She pleaded weakly. Her face scrunched up in pure misery. “ _ Please _ .” Her eyes fell to his lips and up to his eyes. She stared at him. _“Are you going to make me beg you?”_

Gendry remained quiet. He sat up from the bed. Sweat scattered down his forehead rapidly. He wiped it away. His back was to Arya, he did not know if he could keep denying her her wishes, he could not keep watching her fall apart. It was all _too much_. So Gendry said nothing else, except what she wanted to hear. He did it for Arya, for  _ her _ peace of mind, at least that’s what he told himself. 

“Alright.” He mumbled. That answer had not satisfied her. She went on stubbornly. He sighed deeply as she did. 

“Promise me,” she persisted. 

“Arya-”

“-promise me.” She repeated. 

“Arya, I-”

“-promise me!” She shouted exerting energy he was sure she did not have. He turned sharply. She was sitting up on her elbows, her chest moved in and out with sharp exhales, a lot like it had earlier. 

“ _ I promise _ !” he exclaimed.

She laid back down towards the bed, ever so slowly. Her eyes stared up at the canopy. Gendry watched as her muscles and chest began to relax at once. She shut her eyes as her breath slowed, her pale lips parted. He laid back down beside her on his side. She was on her back again, both her hands on her stomach now. 

“Thank you, Gendry,” she mumbled hazily. He watched her as she slowly drifted off into sleep. Her belly moved in and out slowly with her soft sleepy breaths. His hand went to her forehead. She felt hot, but still she trembled. Gendry lifted the linens over her neck and she stirred subtly. He brought his arm over her shivering body to warm her. He rested his head in the place between her neck and shoulder. He smelled her smell; An earthy aroma paired with an overbearing sweetness. _Roses, _he thought_, the smell of it was still on her even now._

“_I_ _love you_ … Arya Stark.” He said it in a whisper, certain she was too deep into her dreams to hear it. 


End file.
